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WAVERLE Y 




NOVELS. 


Volume 17 , 


# 


THE MONASTERY; 


A ROMANCE. 

’V 


IN TWO VOLUMES. 

1 . 


PARKER»S EDITION, 


REVISED AND CORRECTED, WITH A GENERAL PREFACE, AN 
INTRODUCTION TO EACH NOVEL, AND NOTES, 
HISTORICAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE, BY 



THE AUTHOR 

/ 



PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL H. PARKER, BOSTON, FOR 
DESILVER, THOMAS, AND CO., 
PHILADELPHIA. 


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INTRODUCTION 


TO 

THE MONASTERY. 


It would be difficult to assign any good reason why the 
author of Ivanhoe, after using, in that work, all the art 
he possessed to remove the personages, action, and man- 
ners of the tale, to a distance from his own country, 
should choose for the scene of his next attempt the cele- 
brated ruins of Melrose, in the immediate neighbourhood 
of his own residence. But the reason, or caprice, which 
dictated his change of system, has entirely escaped his 
recollection, nor is it worth while to attempt recalling 
what must be a matter of very little consequence. 

The general plan of the story was, to conjoin two char- 
acters in that bustling and contentious age, who, thrown 
into situations which gave them different views on the 
subject of the Reformation, should, with the same sincerity 
and purity of intention, dedicate themselves, the one to 
the support of the sinking fabric of the Catholic Church, 
the other to the establishment of the Reformed doctrines. 
It was supposed that some interesting subjects for narra- 
tive might be derived from opposing two such enthusiasts 
to each other in the path of life, and contrasting the real 
worth of both with their passions and prejudices. The 
localities of Melrose suited well the scenery of the pro- 
posed story ; the ruins themselves form a splendid theatre 
for any tragic incident which might be brought forward ; 
joined to the vicinity of the fine river, with all its tributar}' 
streams, flowing through a country which has been the 
scene of so much fierce fighting, and is rich with so many 
recollections of former times, and lying almost under the 


IV 


INTRODUCTION TO 


immediate eye of th& author, by whom they were to be 
used in composition. 

The situation possessed farther recommendations. On 
the opposite bank of the Tweed might be seen the re- 
mains of ancient enclosures, surrounded by sycamores 
and ash-trees of considerable size. These had once form- 
ed the crofts or arable ground of a village, now reduced 
to a single hut, the abode of a hsherman, who also man- 
ages a ferry. The cottages, even the church which once 
existed there, have sunk into vestiges hardly to be traced 
without visiting the spot, the inhabitants having gradually 
withdrawn to the more prosperous town of Galashiels, 
which has risen into consideration, within two miles of 
their neighbourhood. Superstitious eld, however, has 
tenanted the deserted groves with aerial beings, to supply 
the want of the mortal tenants w’ho have deserted it. 
The ruined and abandoned churchyard of Boldside has 
been long believed to be haunted by the Fairies, and the 
deep broad current of the Tweed, wheeling in moonlight 
round the foot of the steep bank, with the number of trees 
originally planted for shelter round the fields of the cot- 
tagers, but now presenting the effect of scattered and de- 
tached groves, fill up the idea which one would form in 
imagination for a scene that Oberon and Queen Mab 
might love to revel in. There are evenings when the 
spectator might believe, with Father Chaucer, that the 

“ Queen of Fairy, 

With harp, and pipe, and symphony, 

Were dwelling in the place.” 

Another, and even a more familiar refuge of the elfin 
race, (if tradition is to be trusted,) is the glen of the river, 
or rather brook, named the Allen, which falls into the 
Tweed from the northward, about a quarter of a mile 
above the present bridge. As the streamlet finds its way 
behind Lord Sommerville’s hunting-seat, called the Pa- 
vilion, its valley has been popularly termed the Fairy 
Dean, or rather the Nameless Dean, because of the sup- 


THE MONASTERY. 


y 


posed 111 luck attached by the popular faith of ancient 
times, to any one who might name or allude to the race, 
whom our fathers distinguished as the Good Neighbours, 
and the Highlanders called Daoine Shie, or Men ol 
Peace ; rather by way of compliment, than on account 
of any particular idea of friendship or pacific relation 
which either Highlander or Borderer entertained towards 
the irritable beings whom they thus distinguished, or sup- 
posed them to bear to humanity.* 

In evidence of the actual operations of the fairy people 
even at this time, little pieces of calcareous matter are 
found in the glen after a flood, which either the labours 
of those tiny artists, or the eddies of the brook among 
the stones, have formed into a fantastic resemblance of 
cups, saucers, basins, and the like, in which children who 
gather them pretend to discern fairy utensils. 

Besides these circumstances of romantic locality, mea 
paupera regna (as Captain Dalgetty denominates his 
territory of Drumthwacket) are bounded by a small but 
deep lake, from which eyes that yet look on the light are 
said to have seen the water-bull ascend, and shake the 
hills with his roar. 

Indeed, the country around Melrose, if possessing less 
of romantic beauty than some other scenes in Scotland, 
is connected with so many associations of a fanciful na- 
ture, in which the imagination takes delight, as might well 
induce one even less attached to the spot than the author, 
to accommodate, after a general manner, the imaginary 
scenes he was framing to the localities to which he was par- 
tial. But it would be a misapprehension to suppose, that, 
because Melrose may in general pass for Kennaquhair, or 
because it agrees with scenes of the Monastery in the cir- 
cumstances of the drawbridge, the mill-dam,- and other 
points of resemblance, that therefore an accurate or perfect 
local similitude is to be found in all the particulars of the 
picture. It was not the purpose of the author to present a 


* See Rob Roy, Note 13, Vol. II. 
A* VOL. 1. 


vi 


INTRODUCTION TO 


landscape copied from nature, but a piece of composition, 
in vvhicli a real scene, with which he is familiar, had af- 
forded him some leading outlines. Thus the resemblance 
of the imaginary Glendearg with the real vale of the 
Allen, is far from being minute, nor did the author aim at 
identifying them. This must appear plain to all who 
know the actual character of the Glen of Allen, and have 
taken the trouble to read the account of the imaginary 
Glendearg. The stream in the latter case is described 
as wandering down a romantic little valley, shifting itself, 
after the fashion of such a brook, from one side to the 
other, as it can most easily find its passage, and touching 
nothing in its progress that gives token of cultivation. It 
rises near a solitary tower, the abode of a supposed 
church vassal, and the scene of several incidents in the 
Romance. 

The real Allen, on the contrary, after traversing the 
romantic ravine called the Nameless Dean, thrown off 
from side to side alternately, like a billiard ball repelled 
by the sides of the table on which it has been played, and 
in that part of its course resembling the stream which 
pours down Glendearg, may be traced upwards into a 
more open country, where the banks retreat further from 
each other, and the vale exhibits a good deal of dry 
ground, which has not been neglected by the active cul- 
tivators of the district. It arrives, too, at a sort of ter- 
mination, striking in itself, but totally irreconcilable with 
the narrative of the Romance. Instead of a single peel- 
house, or border tower of defence, such as Dame Glendin- 
ning is supposed to have inhabited, the head of the Allen, 
about five miles above its junction with the Tweed, shows 
three ruins of Border houses, belonging to different pro- 
prietors, and each, from the desire of mutual support so 
natural to troublesome times, situated at the extremity of 
the property of which it is the principal messuage. One 
of these is the ruinous mansion-house of Hillslap, for- 
merly the property of the Cairncrosses, and now of Mr 
Innes of Stow ; a second the tower of Colmslie, an an- 


THE MONASTERY. 


Vll 


cient inheritance of the Borthwick family, as is testified 
by their crest, the Goat’s Head, which exists on the ruin ; 
a third, the house of Langshaw, also ruinous, but near 
which the proprietor, Mr. Baillie of Jerviswood and Mel- 
lerstain, has built a small shooting box. 

All these ruins, so strangely huddled together in a very 
solitary spot, have recollections and traditions of their own, 
but none of them bear the most distant resemblance to 
the descriptions in the Romance of the Monastery ; and 
as the author could liardly have erred so grossly regard- 
ing a spot within a morning’s ride of his own house, the 
inference is, that no resemblance was intended. Hillslap 
is remembered by the humours of the last inhabitants, 
two or three elderly ladies, of the class of Miss Raylands, 
in the Old Manor House, though less important by birth 
and fortune. Colmslie is commemorated in song : — 

Colmslie stands on Colmslie hill, 

The water it flows round Colmslie mill j 
The mill and the kiln gang bonnily. 

And it’s up with the whippers of Colmslie ! 


Langshaw, although larger than the other mansions as- 
sembled at the head of the supposed Glendearg, has 
nothing about it more remarkable than the inscription of 
the present proprietor over his shooting lodge — Utinam 
hanc eiiam viris impleam amicis — a modest wish, which 
I know no one more capable of attaining upon an extend- 
ed scale, than the gentleman who has expressed it upon 
a limited one. 

Having thus shown that I could say something of these 
desolated towers, which the desire of social intercourse, 
or the facility of mutual defence, had drawn together at 
the head of this Glen, I need not add any further reason 
to show, that there is no resemblance between them and 
the solitary habitation of Dame Elspeth Glendinning. 
Beyond these dwellings are some remains of natural 
wood, and a considerable portion of morass and bog ; 
but I would not advise any who may be curious in locali- 


Vlli 


INTRODUCTION TO 


tie^, to sj3end lime in looking for the fountain and holly- 
tree of the White Lady. 

While I am on the subject I may add, that Captain 
Clutterbuck, the imaginary editor of the Monastery, has 
no real prototype in the village of Melrose or neighbour- 
hood, that ever I saw or heard of. To give some indi- 
viduality to this personage, he is described as a character 
wiiich sometimes occurs in actual society — a person who, 
having spent his life within the necessary duties of a tech- 
nical profession, from which he has been at length eman- 
cipated, finds himself without any occupation whatever, 
and is apt to become the prey of ennui, until he discerns 
some petty subject of investigation commensurate to his 
talents, the study of which gives him employment in sol- 
itude ; while the conscious possession of information pe- 
culiar to himself, adds to his consequence in society. I 
have often observed, that the lighter and trivial branches 
of antiquarian study are singularly useful in relieving 
vacuity of such a kind, and have known them serve many 
a Captain Clutterbuck to retreat upon ; I w^as therefore 
a good deal surprised, when I found the antiquarian Cap- 
tain identified with a neighbour and friend of my owm, 
who could never have been confounded with him by any 
one who had read tlie book, and seen the party alluded to. 
This erroneous identification occurs in a work entitled, 
“Illustrations of the Author of Waverley, being Notices 
and Anecdotes of real Characters, Scenes, and Incidents, 
supposed to be described in his works, by Robert Cham- 
bers.” This work was, of course, liable to many errors, 
as any one of the kind must.be, whatever maybe the in- 
genuity of the autlior, which takes the task of explaining 
what can be only known to another person. Mistakes of 
place or inanimate things referred to, are of very little 
moment ; but the ingenious author ought to have been 
more cautious of attaching real names to fictitious char- 
acters. I think it is in the Spectator we read of a rustic 
wag, who, in a copy of “ The Whole Duty of Man,” 
wu’ote opposite to every vice the name of some individual 


THE MONASTERY. 


IX 


in the neighbourhood, and thus converted that excellent 
work into a libel on a whole parish. 

The scenery being thus ready at the author’s hand, the 
reminiscences of the country were equally favourable. 
In a land where the horses remained almost constantly 
saddled, and the sword seldom quitted the warrior’s side 
— where war was the natural and constant state of the 
inhabitants, and peace only existed in the shape of brief 
and feverish truces — there could be no want of the means 
to complicate and extricate the incidents of his narrative 
at pleasure. There was a disadvantage, notwithstanding, 
in treading this Border district, for it had been already 
ransacked by the author himself, as well as others ; and 
unless presented under a new light, was likely to afford 
ground to the objection of Crambe bis cocta. 

To attain the indispensable quality of novelty, some- 
thing, it was thought, might be gained by contrasting the 
character of the vassals of the church with those of the 
dependants of the lay barons, by whom they were sur- 
rounded. But much advantage could not be derived 
from this. There were, indeed, differences betwixt the 
two classes, but, like tribes in the mineral and vegetable 
world, which, resembling each other to common eyes, can 
be sufficiently well discriminated by naturalists, they were 
yet too similar, upon the whole, to be placed in marked 
contrast with each other. 

Machinery remained — the introduction of the super- 
natural and marvellous ; the resort of distressed authors 
since the days of Horace, but whose privileges as a sanc- 
tuary have been disputed in the present age, and w^ell- 
nigh exploded. The popular belief no longer allows the 
possibility of existence to the race of mysterious beings 
which hovered betwixt this world and that which is invis- 
ible. The fairies have abandoned their moonlight turf ; 
the witch no longer holds her black orgies in the hemlock 
dell ; and 

Even the last lingering phantom of the breiin 
The churchyard ghost is now at rest again.” 


X 


INTRODUCTION TO 


From the discredit attached to the vulgar and more 
common modes in which the Scottish superstition displays 
itself, the author was induced to have recourse to the 
beautiful, though almost forgotten, theory of astral spirits, 
or creatures of the elements, surpassing human beings in 
knowledge and power, but inferior to them, as being sub- 
ject, after a certain space of years, to a death which is to 
them annihilation, as they have no share in the promise 
made to the sons of Adam. These spirits are supposed 
to be of four distinct kinds, as the elements from which 
they have their origin, and are known, to those who have 
studied the cabalistical philosophy, by the names of 
Sylphs, Gnomes, Salamanders, and Naiads, as they be- 
long to the elements of Air, Earth, Fire, or Water. The 
general reader will find an entertaining account of these 
elementary spirits in the French book, entitled, “ Entre- 
tiens de Compte du Gabalis.” The ingenious Compte 
de la Motte Fouque composed, in German, one of the 
most successful productions of his fertile brain, where a 
beautiful and even afl^licting effect is produced by the in- 
troduction of a water-nymph, who loses. the privilege of 
immortality, by consenting to become accessible to human 
feelings, and uniting her lot with that of a mortal, who 
treats her with ingratitude. 

In imitation of an example so successful, the White 
Lady of Avenel was introduced into the following sheets. 
She is represented as connected with the family of Avenel 
by one of those mystic ties, which, in ancient times, were 
supposed to exist, in certain circumstances, between the 
creatures of the elements and the children of men. Such 
instances of mysterious union are recognised in Ireland, 
in the real Milesian families, who are possessed of a Ban- 
shie ; and they are known among the traditions of the 
Highlanders, which, in many cases, attached an immortal 
being or spirit to the service of particular families or tribes. 
These demons, if they are to be called so, announced 
good or evil fortune to the families connected with them ; 
and though some only condescended to meddle with mat- 
ters of importance, others, like the May Mollach, or Maid 


THE MONASTERY. 


XI 


of the Hairy Arms, condescended to mingle in ordinary 
sports, and even to direct the Chief how to play at 
draughts. 

There was, therefore, no great violence in supposing 
such a being as this to have existed, while the elementary 
spirits were believed in ; but it was more difficult to de- 
scribe or imagine its attributes and principles of action* 
Shakspeare, the first of authorities in such a case, has 
painted Ariel, that beautiful creature of his fancy, as only 
approaching so near to humanity as to know the nature 
of that sympathy which the creatures of clay felt for each 
other, as we learn from the expression — “ Mine would if 
I were human.” The inferences from this are singular, 
but seem capable of regular deduction. A being, how- 
ever superior to man in length of life — in power over the 
elements — in certain perceptions respecting the present, 
the past, and the future, yet still incapable of human pas- 
sions, of sentiments of moral good and evil, of meriting 
future rewards or punishments, belongs rather to the class 
of animals than of human creatures, and must therefore 
be presumed to act more from temporary benevolence or 
caprice, than from any thing approaching to feeling or 
reasoning. Such a being’s superiority in power can only 
be compared to that of the elephant or lion, who are 
greater in strength than man, though inferior in the scale 
of creation. The partialities which we suppose such 
spirits to entertain must be like those of the dog ; their 
sudden starts of passion, or the indulgence of a frolic, or 
mischief, may be compared to those of the numerous 
varieties of the cat. All these propensities are, however, 
controlled by the laws which render the elementary race 
subordinate to the command of man — liable to be subject- 
ed by his science, (so the sect of Gnostics believed, and 
on this turned the Rosicrucian philosophy,) or to be over- 
powered by his superior courage and daring, when it set 
their illusions at defiance. 

It is with reference to this idea of the supposed spirits 
of the elements, that the White Lady of Avenel is repre- 
sented as acting a varying, capricious, and inconsistent 


Xll 


inthoduction to 


part in the pages asigned to her in the narrative ; mani- 
festing interest and attachment to the family with whom 
her destinies are associated, but evincing whim, and even 
a species of malevolence, towards other mortals, as the 
Sacristan and the Border robber, whose incorrect life sub- 
jected them to receive petty mortifications at her hand. 
The White Lady is scarcely supposed, however, to have 
possessed either the power or the inclination to do more 
than inflict terror or create embarrassment, and is always 
subjected by those mortals, who, by virtuous resolution, 
and mental energy, could assert superiority over her. In 
these particulars she seems to constitute a being of a mid- 
dle class, between the esprit follet who places its pleasure 
in misleading and tormenting mortals, and the benevolent 
Fairy of the East, who uniformly guides, aids, and sup- 
ports them. 

Either, however, the author executed his purpose in- 
differently, or the public did not approve of it ; for the 
White Lady of Avenel was far from being popular. He 
does not now make the present statement, in the view of 
arguing readers into a more favourable opinion on the sub- 
ject, but merely with the purpose of exculpating himself 
from the charge of having wantonly intruded into the 
narrative a being of inconsistent powers and propensities. 

In the delineation of another character, the author of 
the Monastery failed, where he hoped for some success. 
As nothing is so successful a subject of ridicule as the 
fashionable follies of the time, it occurred to him that the 
more serious scenes of his narrative might be relieved by 
the humour of a cavaliero of the age of Queen Elizabeth. 
In every period, the attempt to gain and maintain the 
highest rank of society, has depended on the power of as 
suming and supporting a certain fashionable kind of affec- 
tation, usually connected with some vivacity of talent and 
energy of character, but distinguished at the same time 
by a transcendent flight, beyond sound reason and com- 
mon sense ; both faculties too vulgar to be admitted into 
the estimate of one who claims to be esteemed “ a choice 
spirit of the age.*’ These, in their different phases, con- 


THE MONASTERY. 


Xlll 


stitute the gallants of the day, whose boast it is to drive 
the whims of fashion to extremity. 

On all occasions, the manners of the sovereign, the 
court, and the time, must give the tone to the peculiar 
description of qualities by which those who would attain 
the height of fashion must seek to distinguish themselves. 
The reign of Elizabeth, being that of a maiden queen, 
was distinguished by the decorum of the courtiers, and 
especially the affectation of the deepest deference to the 
sovereign. After the acknowledgment of the Queen’s 
matchless perfections, the same devotion was extended to 
beauty as it existed among the lesser stars in her court, 
who sparkled, as it was the mode to say, by her reflected 
lustre. It is true, that gallant knights no longer vowed 
to Heaven, the peacock, and the ladies, to perform some 
feat of extravagant chivalry, in which they endangered 
the lives of others as well as their own ; but although 
their chivalrous displays of personal gallantry seldom went 
further in Elizabeth’s days than the tiliyard, where barri- 
cades, called barriers, prevented the shock of the horses, 
and limited the display of the cavaliers’ skill to the com- 
paratively safe encounter of their lances, the language of 
the lovers to their ladies were still in the exalted terms 
which Amadis would have addressed to Oriana, before 
encountering a dragon for her sake. This tone of ro- 
mantic gallantry found a clever but conceited author, to 
reduce it to a species of constitution and form, and lay 
down the courtly manner of conversation, in a pedantic 
book, called Euphues and his England. Of this, a brief 
account is given in the text, to which it may now be proper 
to make some additions. 

The extravagance of Euphuism, or a symbolical jar- 
gon of the same class, predominates in the romances of 
Calprenade and Scuderi, which were read for the amuse- 
ment of the fair sex of France during the long reign of 
Louis XIV., and were supposed to contain the only legit- 
imate language of love and gallantry. In this reign they 
encountered the satire of Moliere and Boileau. A simi- 

B VOL. I. ) 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION TO 


lar disorder, spreading into private society, formed the 
ground of the affected dialogue of the Precieuses, as they 
were styled, who formed the coterie of the Hotel de 
Rarnboiiillet, and afforded Moliere matter for his admira- 
ble comedy, Les Precieuses Ridicules. In England, the 
humour does not seem to have long survived the accession 
of James I. 

The Author had the vanity to think that a character, 
whose peculiarities should turn on extravagances which 
were once universally fashionable, might be read in a fic- 
titious story with a good chance of affording amusement 
to the existing generation, who, fond as they are of look- 
ing back on the actions and manners of their ancestors, 
might be also supposed to be sensible of their absurdities. 
He must fairly acknowledge that he was disappointed, 
and that the Euphuist, far from being accounted a well 
drawn and humorous character of the period, was con- 
demned as unnatural and absurd. 

It would be easy to account for this failure, by suppos- 
ing the defect to arise from the author’s want of skill, and, 
probably, many readers may not be inclined to look fur- 
ther. But, as the author himself can scarcely be sup- 
posed willing to acquiesce in this final cause, if any other 
can be alleged, he has been led to suspect, that, contrary 
to what he originally supposed, his subject was injudicious- 
ly chosen, in which, and not in his mode of treating it, lay 
the source of the want of success. 

The manners of a rude people are always founded on 
nature, and therefore the feelings of a more polished 
generation immediately sympathize with them. We need 
no numerous notes, no antiquarian dissertations, to enable 
the most ignoragt to recognise the sentiments and diction o. 
the characters of Homer ; we have but, as Lear says, to 
strip off our lendings — to set aside the factitious principles 
and adornments which we have received from our com- 
paratively artificial system of society, and our natural 
feelings are in unison with those of the bard of Chios and 
the heroes who live in his verses. It is the same with a 
great part of the narratives of my friend Mr. Cooper. 


THE MONASTERY. 


XV 


We sympathize with his Indian chiefs and hack-woods- 
men, and acknowledge, in the characters which he pre- 
sents to us, the same truth of human nature by which we 
should feel ourselves influenced if placed in the same 
condition. So much is this the case, that though it is 
difficult, or almost impossible, to reclaim a savage, bred 
from his youth to war and the chase, to the restraints and 
the duties of civilized life, nothing is more easy or com- 
mon, than to find men who have been educated in all the 
habits and comforts of improved society, willing to ex- 
change them for the wild labours of the hunter and the 
fisher. The very amusements most pursued and relished 
by men of all ranks, whose constitutions permit active 
exercise, are hunting, fishing, and in some instances, war, 
the natural and necessary business of the savage of Dry- 
den, where his hero talks of being 

As free cis nature first made man. 

When wild in woods the noble savage ran." 

But although the occupations, and even the sentiments, 
of human beings in a primitive state, find access and in- 
terest in the minds of the more civilized part of the species, 
it does not therefore follow, that the national tastes, opin- 
ions, and follies, of one civilized period, should afford 
either the same interest or the same amusement to those 
of another. These generally, when driven to extrava- 
gance, are founded not upon any natural taste proper to 
the species, but upon the growth of some peculiar cast of 
affectation, with which mankind in general, and succeed- 
ing generations in particular, feel no common interest or 
sympathy. The extravagances of coxcombry in manners 
and apparel are indeed the legitimate, and often the suc- 
cessful objects of satire, during the time when they exist. 
In evidence of this, theatrical critics may observe how 
many dramatic /ewd? d* esprit are well received every sea- 
son, because the satirist levels at some well-known or 
fashionable absurdity ; or, in the dramatic phrase, “ shoots 
folly as it flies.” But when the peculiar kind of folly 
keeps the wing no longer, it is reckoned but waste of 


Xvi INTUODUCTION TO 

powder to pour a discharge of ridicule on what has ceased 
to exist ; and the pieces in which such forgotten absurdi- 
ties are made the subject of ridicule, fall quietly into ob- 
livion with the follies which gave them fashion, or only 
continue to exist on the scene, because they contain some 
other permanent interest than that which connects them 
wdth manners and follies of a temporary character. 

This, perhaps, affords a reason why the comedies of 
Ben Jonson, founded upon system, or what the age term- 
ed humours, — by which was meant factitious and affected 
characters, superinduced on that which was common to 
the rest of their race, — in spite of acute satire, deep 
scholarship, and strong sense, do not now afford general 
pleasure, but are confined to the closet of the antiquary, 
whose studies have assured him that the personages of 
the dramatist were once, though they are now no longer, 
portraits of existing nature. 

Let us take another example of our hypothesis from 
Shakspeare himself, who, of all authors, drew his por- 
traits for all ages. With the whole sum of the idolatry 
which affects us at his name, the mass of readers peruse, 
without amusement, the characters formed on the extrava- 
gances of temporary fashion ; and the Euphuist Don Ar- 
mado, the pedant Holofernes, even Nym and Pistol, are 
read with little pleasure by the mass of the public, being 
portraits of which we cannot recognise the humour, be- 
cause the originals no longer exist. In like manner, while 
the distresses of Romeo and Juliet continue to interest 
every bosom, Mercutio, drawn as an accurate representa- 
tion of the finished fine gentleman of the period, and as 
such received by the unanimous approbation of contem- 
poraries, has SQ little to interest the present age, that, 
stripped of all his puns and quirks of verbal wit, he only 
retains his place in the scene, in virtue of his fine and 
fanciful speech upon dreaming, which belongs to no par- 
ticular age, and because he is a personage w^hose presence 
is indispensable to the plot. 

We have already prosecuted perhaps too far an argu- 
ment, the tendency of which is to prove, that the intro- 


THE MONASTERY. 


XVlJ 


ductlon of an humorist, acting, like Sir Piercie Shafton, 
upon some forgotten and obsolete model of folly, once 
fashionable, is rather likely to awaken the disgust of the 
reader, as unnatural, than find him food for laughter. 
Whether owing to this theory, or whether to the more 
simple and probable cause of the author’s failure in the 
delineation of the subject he had proposed to himself, the 
formidable objection of incredulus odi was applied to the 
Euphuist, as well as to the White Lady of Avenel ; and 
the one was denounced as unnatural, while the other was 
rejected as impossible. 

There was little in the story to atone for these failures 
in two principal points. The incidents were inartificially 
huddled together. There was no part of the intrigue to 
which deep interest was found to apply ; and the conclu- 
sion was brought about, not by incidents arising out of 
the story itself, but in consequence of public transactions, 
with which the narrative has little connexion, and which 
the reader had little opportunity to become acquainted 
with. 

This, if not a positive fault, was yet a great defect in 
the Romance. It is true, that not only the practice of 
some great authors in this department, but even the gen- 
eral course of human life itself, may be quoted in favour 
of this more obvious, and less artificial practice, of ar- 
ranging a narrative. It is seldom that the same circle of 
personages who have surrounded an individual at his first 
outset in life, continue to have an interest in his career till 
his fate comes to a crisis. On the contrary, and more 
especially if the events of his life be of a varied charac- 
ter, and worth communicating to others, or to the world, 
the hero’s later connexions are usually totally separated 
from those with whom he began the voyage, but whom 
the individual has outsailed, or who have drifted astray, 
or foundered on the passage. This hackneyed compari- 
son holds good in another point. The numerous vessels 
of so many different sorts,,and destined for such different 
purposes, which are launched in the same mighty ocean 


XViii INTRODUCTION TO 

although each endeavours to pursue its own course, are 
in every case more influenced by the winds and tides, 
which are common to the element which they all navigate, 
than by their own separate exertions. And it is thus in 
the world, that, when human prudence has done its best, 
some general, perhaps national event, destroys the schemes 
of the individual, as the casual touch of a more powerful 
being sweeps away the web of the spider. 

Many excellent romances have been composed in this 
view of human life, where the hero is conducted through 
a variety of detached scenes, in which various agents ap- 
pear and disappear, without, perhaps, having any perma- 
nent influence on the progress of the story. Such is the 
structure of Gil Bias, Roderick Random, and the lives 
and adventures of many other heroes, who are described 
as running through different stations of life, and encoun- 
tering various adventures, which are only connected with 
each other by having happened to be witnessed by the 
same individual, wdiose identity unites them together, as 
the string of a necklace links the beads, which are other- 
wise detached. 

But though such an unconnected course of adventures 
is what most frequently occurs in nature, yet the province 
of the romance writer being artificial, there is more re- 
quired from him than a mere compliance with the simpli- 
city of reality, — just as we demand from the scientific 
gardener, that he shall arrange, in curious knots and arti- 
ficial parterres, the flowers which “ nature boon” distri- 
butes freely on hill and dale. Fielding, accordingly, in 
most of his novels, but especially in Tom Jones, his chef- 
d^ozuvre, has set the distinguislied example of a story reg- 
ularly built and consistent in all its parts, in which nothing 
occurs, and scarce a personage is introduced, that has not 
some share in tending to advance the catastrophe. 

To demand equal correctness and felicity in those who 
may follow in the track of that illustrious novelist, would 
be to fetter too much the power of giving pleasure, by 
surrounding it with penal rules ; since of this sort of light 
literature it may be especially said — tout genre est permis, 


THE MONASTERY. xix 

hors le genre ennuyeux. Still, however, the more closely 
and happily the story is combined, and the more natural 
and felicitous the catastrophe, the nearer such a compo- 
sition will approach the perfection of the novelist’s art ; 
nor can an author neglect this branch of his profession, 
without incurring proportional censure. 

For such censure the Monastery gave but too much 
occasion. The intrigue of the Romance, neither very 
interesting in itself, nor very happily detailed, is at length 
finally disentangled by the breaking out of national hos 
tilities between England and Scotland, and the as sudden 
renewal of the truce. Instances of this kind, it is true, 
cannot in reality have been uncommon, but the resorting 
to such, in order to accomplish the catastrophe, as by a 
tour deforce, was objected to as inartificial, and not per- 
fectly intelligible to the general reader. 

Still the Monastery, though exposed to severe and just 
criticism, did not fail, judging from the extent of its cir- 
culation, to have some interest for the public. And this, 
too, was according to the ordinary course of such mat- 
ters ; for it very seldom happens that literary reputation 
is gained by a single effort, and still more rarely is it lost 
by a solitary miscarriage. 

The author, therefore, had his days of grace allowed 
him, and time if he pleased, to comfort himself with the 
burden of the old Scots song. 

If it isna weel bobbit. 

We’ll bob it again.” 


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November, 1830. ) 







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I I 






INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE 


FROM 

CAPT. CLUTTERBUCK, 

LATE OF HIS MAJESTY’s REGIMENT OF INFANTRY, 

TO 

THE AUTHOR OF “WAVERLEY.” 


Sir, 

Although I do not pretend to the pleasure of your 
personal acquaintance, like many whom I believe to be 
equally strangers to you, I am nevertheless interested in 
your publications, and desire their continuance ; — not 
that I pretend to much taste in fictitious composition, or 
that I am apt to be interested in your grave scenes, or 
amused by those which are meant to be lively. I will not 
disguise from you that I have yawned over the last inter- 
view of Mac-lvor and his sister, and fell fairly asleep 
while the schoolmaster was reading the humours of Dan- 
die Dinmont. You see, sir, that I scorn to solicit your 
favour in a way to which you are no stranger. If the 
papers I enclose you are worth nothing, I will not en- 
deavour to recommend them by personal flattery, as a 
bad cook pours rancid butter upon stale fish. No, sir ! 
What I respect in you, is the light you have occasional- 
ly thrown on national antiquities, a study which I have 
commenced rather late in life, but to which I am attach- 
ed with the devotion of a first love, because it is the only 
study I ever cared a farthing for. 


4 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


You shall have my history, sir, (it will not reach to 
three volumes,) before that of my manuscript ; and as 
you usually throw out a few lines of verse (by way of 
skirmishers, I suppose,) at the head of each division of 
prose, I have had the luck to light upon a stanza in the 
schoolmaster’s copy of Burns wdiich describes me ex- 
actly. I love it the better, because it w^as originally de- 
signed for Captain Grose, an excellent antiquary, though, 
like yourself, somewhat too apt to treat with levity his 
own pursuits : 

’Tis said he was a soldier bred, 

And one wad rather fa’en than fled ; 

But now he has quit the spurtle blade, 

And dogr-skin wallet, 

And ta’en the — antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

I never could conceive what influenced me when a 
boy, in the choice of a profession. Military zeal and 
ardour it was not, which made me stand out for a com- 
mission in the Scots Fusileers, when my tutors and cu- 
rators wished to bind me apprentice to old David Stiles, 
Clerk to his Majesty’s Signet. I say, military zeal it 
w’as not ; for I was no fighting boy in my owui person, 
and cared not a penny to read the history of the heroes 
who turned the world upside down in former ages. As 
for courage, I had, as 1 have since discovered, just as 
much of it as served my turn, and not one grain of 
surplus. I soon found out, indeed, that in action there 
was more danger in running away thaninstandingfast; and 
besides, I could not afford to lose my commission, which 
w^as my chief means of support. But, as for that over- 
boiling valour, which I have heard many of ours talk of, 
though I seldom observed that it influenced them in the 
actual affair — that exuberant zeal, which courts Danger as 
a bride, — truly my courage was of a complexion much 
less ecstatical. > 

Again, the love of a red coat, which, in default of all 
other aptitudes to the profession, has made many a bad 


INTRODUCTv)RY RTISTLE. 


5 


soldier and some good ones, was an utter stranger to my 
disposition. I cared not a ‘ bodle’ for the company of 
the misses : Nay, though there was a hoarding-school 
in the village, and though we used to meet with its fair 
inmates at Simon Lightfoot’s weekly Practising, I cannot 
recollect any strong emotions being excited on these oc- 
casions, excepting the infinite regret with which 1 went 
through the polite ceremonial of presenting my partner 
with an orange, thrust into my pocket by my aunt for 
this special purpose, but which, had I dared, I certainly 
would have secreted for my own personal use. As for 
vanity, or love of finery for itself, I was such a stranger 
to it, that the difiiculty was great to make me brush my 
coat, and appear in proper trim upon parade. I shall 
never forget the rebuke of my old Colonel, on a morning 
when the King reviewed a brigade of which ours made 
part. “ I am no friend to extravagance. Ensign Clut- 
terbuck,” said he ; “ but on the day when we are to 
pass before the Sovereign of the kingdom, in the name 
of God I would have at least shown him an inch of clean 
linen.” 

Thus, a stranger to all the ordinary motives which lead 
young men to make the army their choice, and without 
the least desire to become either a hero or a dandy, I 
really do not know what determined my thoughts that 
way, unless it were the happy state of half-pay indolence 
enjoyed by Captain Doolittle, who had set up his staff 
of rest in my native village. Every other person had, 
or seemed to have,something to do, less or more. They 
did not indeed precisely go to school and learn tasks, 
that last of evils in my estimation ; but it did not escape 
my boyish observation, that they were all bothered with 
something or other like duty or labour — all but the hap- 
py Captain Doolittle. The minister had his parish to 
visit, and his preaching to prepare, though perhaps he 
made more fuss than he needed about both. The laird 
had his farming and improving operations to superintend ; 
and, besides, he had to attend trustee meetings, and 
1 * VOL. I. 


6 


IXTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


lieutenancy meetings, and head-courts, and meetings of 
justices, and what not; — was as early up, (that I 
detested) and as much in the open air, wet and dry, as his 
own grieve. The shopkeeper (the village boasted but 
one of eminence) stood indeed pretty much at his ease 
behind his counter, for his custom was by no means 
over-burdensome ; but still he enjoyed his status, as the 
Baillie calls it, upon condition of tumbling all the wares 
in his booth over and over, when any one chose to want 
a yard of muslin, a mouse-trap, an ounce of caraways, a 
paper of pins, the Sermons of Mr. Peden, or the Life of 
Jack the Giant-Queller, (not Killer, as usually errone- 
ously written and pronounced. — See my Essay on the 
true history of this worthy, where real facts have in a 
peculiar degree been obscured by fable.) In short, all in 
the village were under the necessity of doing something 
which they would rather have left undone, excepting 
Captain Doolittle, who walked every morning in the 
open street, which formed the high mail of our village, 
in a blue coat with a red neck, and played at whist the 
whole evening, when he could make up a party. This 
happy vacuity of all employment appeared to me so de- 
licious, that it became the primary hint, which, according 
to the system of Helvetius, as the minister says, de- 
termined my infant talents towards the profession I was 
destined to illustrate. 

But who, alas, can form a just estimate of their future 
prospects in this deceitful world ! I was not long engaged 
in my new profession, before 1 discovered, that if the 
independent indolence of half-pay was a paradise, the 
officer must pass through the purgatory of duty and ser- 
vice in order to gain admission to it. Captain Doolittle 
might brush his blue coat with the red neck, or leave 
it unbrushed, at his pleasure ; but Ensign Clutterbuck 
1iad no such option. Captain Doolittle might go to bed 
at ten o’clock, if he had a mind ; but the Ensign must 
make the rounds in his turn. What was worse, the 
Captain might repose under the tester of his tent-bed un- 
til noon, if he was so pleased ; but the Ensign, God help 


I.XTilOB U CTGll V i:riSTLE. 


7 


him, had to appear upon parade at peep of day. As for 
duty, I made that as easy as I could, had the sergeant to 
whisper to me the words of command, and bustled 
through as other folks did. Of service, 1 saw enough 
for an indolent man — was buffeted up and down the 
world, and visited both the East and West Indies, Egypt, 
and other distant places, which my youth had scarce 
dreamed of. The French I saw, and felt too ; witness 
two fingers of my right hand, which one of their cursed 
hussars took off* with his sabre as neatly as an hospital 
surgeon. At length the death of an old aunt, who left 
me some fifteen hundred pounds, snugly vested in the 
three per cents, gave me the long-wished-for opportunity 
of retiring, with the prospect of enjoying a clean shirt 
and a guinea four times a-week at least. 

For the purpose of commencing my new way of life, 
1 selected for my residence the village of Kennaquhair, 
in the south of Scotland, celebrated for the ruins of its 
magnificent Monastery, intending there to lead my future 
life in the otium cum dignitaie of half-pay and annuity. 
I was not long, however, in making the grand discovery, 
that in order to enjoy leisure, it is absolutely necessary 
it should be preceded by occupation. For some time, it 
was delightful to wake at daybreak, dreqming of the 
reveille — then to recollect my happy emancfpation from 
the slavery that doomed me to start at a piece of clat- 
tering parchment, turn on my other side, damn the pa- 
rade, and go to sleep again. But even this enjoyment 
had its termination ; and time, when it became a stock 
entirely at my own disposal, began to hang heavy on my 
hand. 

I angled for two days, during which time I lost twenty 
hooks, and several scores of yards of gut and line, and 
caught not even a minnow. Hunting was out of the 
question, for the stomach of a horse by no means agrees 
with the half-pay establishment. When I shot, the shep- 
herds and ploughmen, and my very dog, quizzed me 
every time that I missed, which was, generally speaking, 
every time 1 fired. Besides, the country gentlemen in 


8 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


this quarter like their game, and began to talk of pro- 
secutions and interdicts. I did not give up fighting the 
French to commence a domestic war with the “ pleas- 
ant men of Teviotdale,” as the song calls them 5 so I 
e’en spent three days (very agreeably) in cleaning my 
gun, and disposing it upon two hooks over my chimney- 
piece. 

The success of this accidental experiment set me on 
trying my skill in the mechanical arts. Accordingly, 1 
took down and cleaned my landlady’s cuckoo-clock, 
and in so doing, silenced that companion of the spring 
forever and a day. I mounted a turning lathe, and, in 
attempting to use it, I very nearly cribbed oft', with an 
inch-and-half former, one of the fingers which the hus- 
sar had left me. 

Books I tried, both those of the little circulating libra- 
ry, and of the more rational subscription-collection main- 
tained by this intellectual people. But neither the light 
reading of the one, nor the heavy artillery of the other, 
suited my purpose. I always fell asleep at the fourth or 
fifth page of history or disquisition ; and it took me a 
month’s hard reading to wade through a half-bound trashy 
novel, during which I was pestered with applications to 
return the volumes, by every half-bred milliner’s miss 
about the place. In short, during the hours when all the 
town besides had something to do, I had nothing for it, 
but to walk in the church-yard, and whistle till it was 
dinner-time. 

During these promenades, the Ruins necessarily forc- 
ed themselves on my attention, and, by degrees, 1 found 
myself engaged in studying the more minute ornaments, 
and at length the general plan, of this noble structure. 
The old sexton aided my labours, and gave me his por- 
tion of traditional lore. Every day added something to 
my stock of knowledge respecting the ancient state of 
the building ; and at length 1 made discoveries concern- 
ing the purpose of several detached and very ruinous 
portions of it, the use of which had hitherto been either 
unknown altogether, or erroneously explained. 


INTROCUCTOUY EPISTLE. 


9 


The knowledge which I thus acquired I had frequent 
opportunities of retailing to those visiters whom the 
progress of a Scottish tour brought to visit this celebrat- 
ed spot. Without encroaching on the privilege of my 
friend the sexton, 1 became gradually an assistant Cice- 
rone in the task of description and explanation, and often 
(seeing a fresh party of visiters arrive) has he turned 
over to me those to whom he had told half his story, 
with the flattering observation, “ What needs I say ony 
mair about it ^ There’s the Captain kens mair anent 
it than I do, or any man in the town.” Then would I 
salute the strangers courteously, and expatiate to their 
astonished minds upon crypts and chancels, and naves, 
arches, Gothic and Saxon architraves, mullions and fly- 
ing buttresses. It not infrequently happened that an ac- 
quaintance which commenced in the Abbey concluded in 
the inn, which served to relieve the solitude as well as 
the monotony of my landlady’s shoulder of mutton, 
whether roast, cold, or hashed. 

By degrees my mind became enlarged ; ^found a 
book or tw'o which enlightened me on the subject of Go- 
thic architecture, and I read now wdth pleasure, because 
I was interested in what 1 read about. Even my char- 
acter began to dilate and expand. I spoke wdlh more 
authority at the club, and was listened to with deference, 
because on one subject, at least, I possessed more in- 
formation than any of its. members. Indeed, I found 
that even my stories about Egypt, which, to say truth, 
were somewhat threadbare, were now listened to with 
more respect than formerly. “ The Captain,” they said, 
“ had something in him after a’, — there were few folk 
kend sae mickle about the Abbey.” 

With this general approbation waxed my own sense 
of self-importance, and my feeling of general comfort. I 
ate with more appetite, I digested with more ease, I lay 
down at night with joy, and slept sound till morning, 
when I arose with a sense of busy importance, and hied 
me to measure, to examine, and to compare the various 
parts of this interesting structure. I lost all sense and 


10 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


consciousness of certain unpleasant sensations of a non- 
descript nature, about my head and stomach, to which 1 
had been in the habit of attending, more for the benefit 
of the village apothecary than my own, for the pure 
want of something else to think about. I had found out 
an occupation unwittingly, and was happy because I had 
something to do. In a word, I had commenced local 
antiquary, and was not unworthy of the name. 

Whilst I was in this pleasing career of busy idleness, 
for so it might at best be called, it happened that I was one 
night sitting in my little parlour, adjacent to the closet 
which my landlady calls my bed-room, in the act of pre- 
paring for an early retreat to the realms of Morpheus. 
Dugdale’s Monasticon, borrowed from the library at 

A , was lying on the table before me, flanked by 

some excellent Cheshire cheese, (a present by the way 
from an honest London citizen, to whom I had explained 
the difference betwixt a Gothic and a Saxon arch,) and 
a glass of Vanderhagen’s best ale. Thus armed at all 
points agliinst my old enemy Time, I was leisurely and 
deliciously preparing for bed — now reading a line of old 
Dugdale — now sipping my ale, or munching my bread 
and cheese — now undoing the strings at my breeches’ 
knees, or a button or two of my waistcoat, until the vil- 
lage clock should strike ten, before which time I make 
it a rule never to go to bed. A loud knocking, however, 
interrupted my ordinary process on this occasion, and 
the voice of my honest landlord of the George was heard 
vociferating,^ “ What the deevil, Mrs. Grimslees, the 
Captain is no in his bed ? and a gentleman at our house 
has ordered a fowl and minced collops, and a bottle of 
sherry, and has sent to ask him to supper, to tell him all 
about the Abbey.” 

“ Na,” answered Luckie Grimslees, in the true sleepy 
tone of a Scottish matron when ten o’clock is going to 
strike, he’s no in his bed, but I’se warrant him no gae 
out at this time o’ night to keep folks sitting up waiting 
for him — the Captain’s a decent man.” 


introductory epistle. 


11 


plainly perceived this last compliment was made 
for my hearing, by way both of indicating and of recom- 
mending the course of conduct which Mrs.Grimslees 
desired I should pursue. But 1 had not been knocked 
about the world for thirty years and odd, and lived a 
bluff bachelor all the while, to come home and be put 
under petticoat government by my landlady. Accord- 
ingly I opened my chamber door, and desired my old 
friend David to walk up stairs. 

“ Captain,” said he, as he entered, “ I am as glad 
to find you up as if I had hooked a twenty pound sau- 
mon. There’s a gentleman up yonder that will not sleep 
sound in his bed this blessed night, unless he has the 
pleasure to drink a glass of wine with you.” 

“ You know, David,” I replied, with becoming digni- 
ty, “ that I cannot with propriety go out to visit strangers 
at this time of night, or accept of invitations from 
people of whom I know nothing.” 

David swore a round oath, and added, “ Was ever 
the like heard of ? He has ordered a fowl and egg sauce, 
a pancake and minched collops, and a bottle of sherry — 
D’ye think I wad come and ask you to go to keep com- 
pany with ony bit English rider, that sups on toasted 
cheese and a cheerer of rum-toddy ? This is a gentle- 
man every inch of him, and a virtuoso, a clean virtuoso 
— a sad-coloured stand of claiths, and a wig like the 
curled back of a mug-ewe. The very first question 
he speered was about the auld draw-brig that has been 
at the bottom of the water these twalscore years — I have 
seen the fundations w'hen we were sticking saumon — 
And how the deevil suld he‘*ken ony thing about the auld 
draw^-brig, unless he were a virtuoso 

David being a virtuoso in his own way, and moreover 
alandholdef and heritor, was a qualified judge of all who 
frequented his house, and therefore I could not avoid 
again tying the strings of my knees. 

“ That’s right. Captain,” vociferated David ; “ you 
twa will be as thick as three in a bed an ance ye for- 
gather. I haena seen the like o’ him my very sell since 


12 


inthoductory epistle. 


I saw the great Doctor Samuel Johnson on hi3 tower 
through Scotland, whilk tower is lying in my back-par- 
lour for the amusement of my guests, wi’ the twa boards 
torn afF.” 

“ Then the gentleman is a scholar, David f” 

‘‘ I’se uphaud him a scholar,” answered David ; ‘‘ he 
has a black coat on, or a brown ane, at ony rate.” 

“ Js he a clergyman ?” 

“ I am thinking no, for he looked after his horse’s 
supper before he spoke o’ his ain,” replied mine host. 

“ Has he a servant?” demanded I. 

“ Nae servant,” answered David ; “ but a grand face 
he has o’ his ain, that wad gar ony body be willing to 
serve him that looks upon him.” 

“ And what makes him think of disturbing me F Ah, 
David, this has been some of your chattering ; you are 
perpetually bring your guests on my shoulders, as if it 
were my business to entertain every man who comes to 
the George.” 

“ What the deil wad ye hae me do. Captain answer- 
ed mine host ; “ a gentleman lights down, and asks me 
in a most earnest manner, what man of sense and learn- 
ing there is about our town, that can tell him about the 
antiquities of the place, and specially about the auld 
Abbey — Ye wadna hae me tell the gentleman a lee? and 
ye ken weel eneugh there is naebody in the town can 
say a reasonable word about it, be it no yoursell, except 
the bedral, and he is as fou as a piper by this time. So, 
says I, there’s Captain Clutterbuck, that’s a very civil gen- 
tleman, and has little to do forbye telling a’ the auld 
cracks about the Abbey, and dwells just hard by. 
Then says the gentleman to me, ‘ Sir,’ says he, very 
civilly, ‘ have the goodness to step to Captain Clutter- 
buck with my compliments, and say I am a stranger, 
who have been led to these parts chiefly by the fame of 
these Ruins, and that I would call upon him, but the 
hour is late.’ And mair he said that I have forgotten, 
but I weel remember it ended — ‘ And, landlord, get a 
bottle of your best sherry, and supper for two '-^Ye 


IlfTRODUCTORY EPISTXE. 


13 


wadna have had me refuse to do the gentleman’s bid- 
ding, and me a publican ?” 

[ “ Well, David,” said I, “ I wish your virtuoso had 

j taken a fitter hour — but as you say he is a gentleman” — 
“ I’se uphaud him that — the order speaks for itsell — 
a bottle of sherry — minchedcollops and a fowl — that’s 
speaking like a gentleman,! trow ? — That’s right. Cap- 
tain, button weel up, the night’s raw — but the water’s 
clearing for a’ that; we’ll be on’t neist night wi’ my 
Lord’s boats, and we’ll hae ill luck if I dinna send you a 
kipper to relish your ale at e’en.”^ 

In five minutes after this dialogue, I found myself in 
the parlour of the George, and in the presence of the 
stranger. 

He was a grave personage, about my own age, (which 
we shall call about fifty), and really had, as my friend 
David expressed- it, something in his face that inclined 
men to oblige and to serve him. Yet this expression of 
authority was not at all of the cast which I have seen in 
the countenance of a general of brigade, neither was the 
stranger’s dress at all martial. It consisted of a uniform 
suit of iron-grey clothes, cut in rather an old-fashioned 
form. His legs were defended with strong leathern 
gambadoes, which according to an antiquariancontrivance, 
opened at the sides, and were secured by steel clasps. 

' His countenance was worn as much by toil and sorrow as 
by age, for it intimated thathe had seen and endured much, 
i His address was singularly pleasing and gentleman-like, 
and the apology which he made for disturbing me at such 
an hour, and in such a manner, was so well and hand- 
, somely expressed, that I could not reply otherwise than 
by declaring my willingness to be of service to him. 

“ I have been a traveller to-day, sir,” said he, “ and 
I would willingly defer the little I have to say till after 
supper, for which I feel rather more appetized than 
I usual.” 

[ We sat down to table, and notwithstanding the stran- 
I ger’s alleged appetite, as well as the gentle preparation 
2 VOL. I. 


14 


INTRODUCTOra' EPISTLE. 


of cheese and ale which 1 had already laid aboard, I 
really believe that 1 of the two did the greater honour 
to my friend David’s fowl and minced collops. 

When the cloth was removed, and we had each made 
tumbler of negus of that liquor which hosts call Sherry, 
and guests call Lisbon, I perceived that the stranger 
seemed pensive, silent, and somewhat embarrassed, as if 
he had something to communicate wdjich he knew not 
well how to introduce. To pave the way for him, I 
spoke of the ancient ruins of the Monastery, and of their 
history. But, to my great surprise, I found I had met 
my match with a witness. The stranger not only knew 
all that I could tell him, but a great deal more ; and, 
what was still more mortifying, he was able, by reference 
to dates, charters, and other evidence of facts, that, as 
Burns says, “ downa be disputed,” to correct many of 
the vague tales which I had adopted on loose and vul- 
gar tradition, as well as to confute more than one of my 
favourite theories on the subject of the old monks and 
their dwellings, which I had sported freely in all the pre- 
sumption of superior information. And here I cannot 
but remark, that much of the stranger’s arguments and in- 
ductions rested upon the authority of Mr. Deputy Regis- 
ter of Scotland^ and his lucubrations ; a gentleman whose 
indefatigable research into the national records is like to 
destroy my trade, and that of all local antiquaries, by 
substituting truth instead of legend and romance. Alas, 
I would the learned gentleman did but know how diffi- 
cult it is for us dealers in petty wares of antiquity to — 


Pluck from our memories a rooted “ legend,” 

Raze out the written records of our brain, 

Or cleanse our bosoms of that perilous stuff 

and so forth. It would, I am sure, move his pity to think 
how many old dogs he hath set to learn new tricks, how 
many venerable parrots he hath taught to sing a new 
song, how many grey heads he hath addled by vain at- 
tempts to exchange their old Mmnpsimus for his new 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE* 


15 


Sumpsimus. But let it pass — Humana perpessi sumus — 
all changes round us, past, present, and to come ; that 
which was history yesterday becomes fable to-day, and 
the truth of to-day is hatched into a lie by to-morrow. 

Finding myself like to be overpowered in the Monaste- 
ry, which 1 had hitherto regarded as my citadel, I began, 
like a skilful general, to evacuate that place of defence, 
and fight my way through the adjacent country. I had 
recourse to my acquaintance with the families and anti- 
quities of the neighbourhood, ground on which 1 thought 
1 might skirmish at large without its being possible for 
the stranger to meet me with advantage. But I w^as 
mistaken. 

The man in the iron-grey suit showed a much more 
minute knowledge of these particulars than I had the 
least pretension to. He could tell the very year in 
which the family of De Haga first settled on their an- 
cient barony.^ Not a thane within reach but he knew 
his family and connexions, how many of his ancestors 
had fallen by the sword of the English, how many in 
domestic brawl, and how many by the hand of the exe- 
cutioner for march-treason. Their castles he was ac- 
quainted with from turret to foundation-stone ; and as for 
the miscellaneous antiquities scattered about the country, 
he knew every one of them, from a cromlech to a cairn^ 
and could give as good an account of each as if he had 
lived in the time of the Danes or Druids. 

1 was now in the mortifying predicament of one who 
suddenly finds himself a scholar when he came to teach, 
and nothing was left for me but to pick up as much of 
his conversation as I could, for the benefit of the next 
company. I told, indeed, Allan Ramsay’s story of the 
Monk and Miller’s Wife, in order to retreat with some 
honour under cover of a parting volley. Here, however, 
my flank was again turned by the eternal stranger. 

“ You are pleased to be facetious, sir,” said he, but 
you cannot be ignorant that the ludicrous incident you 
mentioned is the subject of a tale much older than that 
of Allan Ramsay.” 


16 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


I nodded, unwilling to acknowledge my ignorance, 
though, in fact, I knew no more what he meant than did 
one of my friend David’s post-horses. 

‘‘ I do not allude,” continued my omniscient compan- 
ion, to the curious poem published by Pinkerton from 
the Maitland Manuscript, called the Fryars of Berwick, 
although it presents a very minute and amusing picture 
of Scottish manners during the reign of James V. ; but 
rather to the Italian novelist, by whom, so far as I know, 
the story was first printed, although unquestionably he 
first took his original from some ancient yaiZtaM.”® 

“ It is not to be doubted,” answered I, not very well 
understanding, however, the proposition to which I gave 
such unqualified assent. 

“ Yet,” continued my companion, “ 1 question much, 
had you known rny situation and profession, whether you 
would have pitched upon this precise anecdote for my 
amusement.” 

This observation he made in a tone of perfect good 
humour. I pricked up my ears at the hint, and answer- 
ed as politely as I could, that my ignorance of his con- 
dition and rank could be the only cause of my having 
stumbled on any thing disagreeable ; and that I was 
most willing to apologize for my unintentional offence, 
so soon as I should know wherein it consisted. 

‘‘ Nay, no offence, sir,” he replied ; offence can 
only exist where it is taken. I have been too long ac- 
customed to more severe and cruel misconstructions^ to 
be offended at a popular jest, though directed at my 
profession.” 

“ Am I to understand then,” I answered, “ that I am 
speaking with a Catholic clergyman 

“ An unworthy Monk of the order of Saint Benedict,” 
said the stranger, “ belonging to a community of your 
own countrymen, long established in France, and scat- 
tered unhappily by the events of the Revolution.” 

“ Then,” said I, “ you are a native Scotchman, and 
from this neighbourhood ?” 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


17 


“ Not so,” answered the Monk ; “ I am a Scotchman 
by extraction only, and never was in this neighbourhood 
during my whole life.” 

“ Never in this neighbourhood, and yet so minutely 
acquainted with its history, its traditions, and even its 
external scenery ! You surprise me, sir,” I replied. 

‘‘It is not surprising,” he said, “ that I should have 
that sort of local information, when it is considered, 
that my uncle, an excellent man, as well as a good Scotch- 
man, the head also of our religious community, employ- 
ed much of his leisure in making me acquainted with 
these particulars ; and that I myself, disgusted with what 
has been passing around me, have for many years amus- 
ed myself, by digesting and arranging the various scraps 
of information which I derived from my worthy relative, 
and other aged brethren of our order.” 

“ 1 presume, sir,” said I, “ though I would by no 
means intrude the question, that you are now returned 
to Scotland with a view to settle amongst your country- 
men, since the great political catastrophe of our time 
has reduced your corps 

“ No, sir,” replied the Benedictine, “ such is not my 
intention. A European potentate, who still cherishes 
the Catholic faith, has offered us a retreat within his do- 
minions, where a few of my scattered brethren are al- 
ready assembled, to pray to God for blessings on their 
protector, and pardon to their enemies. No one, I be- 
lieve, will be able to object to us under our new estab- 
lishment, that the extent of our revenues will be incon- 
sistent with our vows of poverty and abstinence ; but let 
us strive to be thankful to God, that the snare of tem- 
poral abundance is removed from us.” 

“ Many of your convents abroad, sir,” said I, “ enjoy- 
ed very handsome incomes — and yet, allowing for times, 
I question if any were better provided for than the 
Monastery of this village. It is said to have possessed 
nearly two thousand pounds in yearly money-rent, four- 
teen chalders and nine bolls of wdieat, fifty-six chalders 
2 * VOL. I. 


18 


IXTRODLCTORT EPISTLE. 


five bolls barley, forty-four chalders and ten bolls oats, 
capons and poultry, butter, salt, carriage and arriage, 
peats and kain, wool and ale.” 

“ Even too much of all these temporal goods, sir,” 
said my companion, “ which, though well intended by 
the pious donors, served only to make the establishmen 
the envy and the prey of those by whom it was finally 
devoured.” 

“ In the meanwhile, however,” I observed, ‘‘ the 
Monks had an easy life of it, and, as the old song goes, 

made gude kale 

On Fridays when they fasted. 

“ I understand you, sir,” said the Benedictine ; “ it 
is difficult, saith the proverb, to carry a full cup without 
spilling. Unquestionably the wealth of the community, 
as it endangered the safety of the establishment by ex- 
citing the cupidity of others, was also in frequent instances 
a snare to the brethren themselves. And yet we have 
seen the revenues of convents expended, not only in 
acts of beneficence and hospitality to individuals, but in 
works of general and permanent advantage to the world 
at large. The noble folio collection of French histori- 
ans commenced in 1737, under the inspection and at 
the expense of the community of Saint Maur, will long 
show that the revenues of the Benedictines were not 
always spent in self-indulgence, and that the members of 
that order did not uniformly slumber in sloth and indo- 
lence, when they had discharged the formal duties of 
their rule.” 

As I knew nothing earthly at the time about tbe com- 
munity of Saint Maur and their learned labours, I could 
only return a mumbling assent to this proposition. I 
have since seen this noble work in the library of a dis- 
tinguished family, and I must own I am ashamed to 
reflect, that in so wealthy a country as ours, a similar 3 
digest of our historians should not be undertaken, under f ' 
the patronage of the noble and the learned, in rivalry of J| 


IXTRODrCTORY EPISTLE. 


19 


that which the Benedictines of Paris executed at the 
expense of their own conventual funds. 

“ 1 perceive,” said the ex-Benedictine smiling, “ that 
your heretical prejudices are too strong to allow us poor 
brethren any merit, whether literary or spiritual.” 

“ Far from it, sir,” said I ; “ I assure you I have been 
much obliged to monks in my time. When I was 
quartered in a Monastery in Flanders, in the campaign 
of 1793, 1 never lived more comfortably in my life. 
They were jolly fellows the Flemish Canons, and right 
sorry was 1 to leave my good quarters, and to know 
that my honest hosts were to be at the mercy of the 
Sans-Culottes. But fortune de la guerre /” 

The poor Benedictine looked down and was silent. 
I had unwittingly awakened a train of bitter reflections, 
or rather I had touched somewhat rudely upon a chord 
which seldom ceased to vibrate of itself. But he was 
too much accustomed to this sorrowful train of ideas to 
suffer it to overcome him. On my part, I hastened to 
atone for my blunder. “ If there was any object of his 
journey to this country in which I could, with propriety, 
assist him, I begged to offer him by best services.” I 
own I laid some little emphasis on the words “ with 
propriety,” as I felt it would ill become me, a sound pro- 
testant, and a servant of government so far as my half- 
pay was concerned, to implicate myself in any recruiting 
which my companion might have undertaken in hehalf of 
foreign seminaries, or in any similar design for the ad- 
vancement of popery, which, whether the Pope be actu- 
ally the old lady of Babylon or no, it did not become 
me in any manner to advance or countenance. 

My new friend hastened to relieve my indecision. 

I was about to request your assistance, sir,” he said, 

“ in a matter which cannot but interest you as an anti- 
quary, and a person of research. But I assure you it 
relates entirely to events and persons removed to the 
distance of two centuries and a half. I have experienc- 
ed too much evil from the violent unseltlement of the 


20 


IXTRODUCTOar EriSTLE. 


country in which I was born, to be a rash labourer in the 
work of innovation in that of my ancestors.” 

I again assured him of my willingness to assist him in 
any thing that was not contrary to my allegiance or re- 
ligion. 

“ My proposal,” he replied, “ affects neither. — May 
God bless the reigning family in Britain ! They are 
not, indeed, of that dynasty, to restore which my ances- 
tors struggled and suffered in vain ; but the Providence 
who has conducted his present Majesty to the throne, 
has given him the virtues necessary to his time — firm- 
ness and intrepidity — a true lov^e of his country, and an 
enlightened view of the dangers by which she is sur- 
rounded. For the religion of these realms, I am conr 
tented to hope that the great Power, whose mysterious 
dispensation has rent them from the bosom of the church, 
will, in his own good time and manner, restore them to 
its holy pale. The efforts of an individual obscure and 
humble as myself, might well retard, but could never 
advance a work So mighty.” 

“ May I then inquire, sir,” said I, “ with what pur- 
pose you seek this country .^” 

Ere my companion replied, he took from his pocket 
a clasped paper book, about the size of a regimental 
orderly-book, full, as it seemed, of memoranda ; and 
drawing one of the candles close to him, (for David, as a 
strong proof of his respect for the stranger, had indulged 
us with two,) he seemed to peruse the contents very 
earnestly. 

“ There is among the ruins of the western end of the 
Abbey church,” said he, looking up to me, yet keeping 
the memorandum-book half open, and occasionally 
glancing at it, as if to refresh his memory, “ a sort of 
recess or chapel beneath a broken arch, and in the im- 
mediate vicinity of one of those shattered Gothic col- 
umns which once supported the magnificent roof, whose 
fall has now encumbered that part of the building with 
its ruins.” 


IXTRODTJCTORY EPISTLE. 


21 


“ I think,” said I, “ that I know whereabouts you 
are. Is there not in the side wall of the chapel, or 
recess which you mention, a large carved stone, bearing 
a coat of arms, which no one hitherto has been able to 
decipher 

“ You are right,” answered the Benedictine, and 
again consulting his memoranda, he added, “ the arms 
on the dexter side are those of Glendinning, being a cross 
parted by a cross indented and countercharged of the 
same ; and on the sinister three spur-rowels for those of 
Avenel ; they are two ancient families, now almost ex- 
tinct in this country — the arms part y per pale.^^ 

“ I think,” said I, “ there is no part of this ancient 
structure with which you are not as w^ell acquainted as 
was the mason who built it. But if your information be 
correct, he who made out these bearings must have had 
better eyes than mine.” 

“ His eyes,” said the Benedictine, “ have long been 
closed in death ; probably when he inspected the monu- 
ment it was in a more perfect state, or he may have 
derived his information from the tradition of the place.” 

‘‘ I assure you,” said I, “ that no such tradition now 
exists. I have made several reconnoissances among 
the old people, in hopes to learn something of the armo- 
rial bearings, but 1 never heard of such a circumstance. 
It seems odd that you should have acquired it in a for- 
eign land.” 

“ These trifling particulars,” he replied, “were for- 
merly looked upon as more important, and they were 
sanctified to the exiles who retained recollection of them, 
because they related to a place dear indeed to memory, 
but which their eyes could never again behold. It is pos- 
sible, in like manner, that on the Potomack or Susque- 
hanna, you may find traditions current concerning places 
in England, which are utterly forgotten in the neighbour- 
hood where they originated. But to my purpose. In 
this recess, marked by the armorial bearings, lies buried 
a treasure, and it is in order to remove it that I have 
undertaken my present journey,” 


22 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


“ A treasure !” echoed I, in astonishment. 

“Yes,” replied the Monk, “ an inestimable treasure 
for those who know how to use it rightly.” 

“ I own my ears did tingle a little at the word treas- 
ure, and that a handsome tilbury, with a neat groom in 
blue and scarlet livery, having a smart cockade on his 
glazed hat, seemed as it were to glide across the room be - 
fore my eyes, while a voice, as of a crier, pronounced in 
my ear, “ Captain Clutterbuck’s tilbury — drive up.” 
But I resisted the devil, and he fled from me. 

“ I believe,” said I, “ all hidden treasure belongs 
either to the king or the lord of the soil ; and as I have 
served his Majesty, I cannot concern myself in any ad- 
venture which may have an end in the Court of Ex- 
chequer.” 

“ The treasure I seek,” said the stranger, smiling, 
“ will not be envied by princes or nobles, — it is simply 
the heart of an upright man.” 

“ Ah ! I understand you,” I answered, “ some re- 
lique, forgotten in the confusion of the Reformation. I 
know the value which men of your persuasion put upon 
the bodies and limbs of saints. 1 have seen the three 
Kings of Cologne.” 

“ The reliques which I seek, however,” said the Ben- 
edictine, “ are not precisely of that nature. The 
excellent relative whom I have already mentioned, 
amused his leisure hours with putting into form the tra- 
ditions of his family, particularly some remarkable cir- 
cumstances which took place about the first breaking out 
of the schism of the Church in Scotland. He became 
so much interested in his own labours, that at length he 
resolved that the heart of one individual, the hero of his 
tale, should rest no longer in a land of heresy, now de- 
serted by all his kindred. As he knew where it was 
deposited, he formed the resolution to visit his native 
country for the purpose of recovering this valued re- 
lique. But age, and at length disease, interfered with 
his resolution, and it was on his death-bed that he charg- 
ed me to undertake the task in his stead. The various 


INTRODUCTOllY EPISTJLE. 


23 


important events which have crowded upon each other, 
our ruin and oUr exile, have for many years obliged me 
to postpone this delegated duty. Why, indeed, transfer 
the reliques of a holy and worthy man to a country, 
where religion and virtue are become the mockery of 
the scorner ? I have now a home, which I trust may 
be permanent, if any thing in this earth can be termed 
so. Thither will I transport the heart of the good 
father, and beside the shrine which it shall occupy, 1 will 
construct my own grave.” 

‘‘ He must, indeed, have been an excellent man,” 
replied I, “ whose memory, at so distant a period, calls 
forth such strong marks of regard.” 

He was, as you justly term him,” said the ecclesias- 
tic, “ indeed excellent — excellent in his life and doctrine 
— excellent, above all, in his self-denied and disinterested 
sacrifice of all that life holds dear, to principle and to 
friendship. But you shall read his history. I shall be 
happy at once to gratify your curiosity, and to show my 
sense of your kindness, if you will have the goodness 
to procure me the means of accomplishing my object.” 

I replied to the Benedictine, that, as the rubbish 
amongst which he proposed to search was no part of the 
; ordinary burial-ground, and as I was on the best terms 
; with the sexton, 1 had little doubt that I could procure 
I him the means of executing his pious purpose. 

I With this promise we parted for the night ; and on 
! the ensuing morning I made it my business to see the 
I sexton, who for a small gratuity, readily granted permis- 
f sion of search, on condition, however, that he should be 
i present himself, to see that the stranger removed nothing 
r of intrinsic value. 

I “ To banes, and sculls, and hearts, if he can find ony, 

> he shall be welcome,” said this guardian of the ruined 
I Monastery, “ there’s plenty a’ about, an he’s curious of 
I them ; but if there be ony picts (meaning perhaps 
} or chalishes, or the like of such Popish veshells of gold 
and silver, deil hac me an I conneeve at their being 


24 


iNTliODtJCTORT EPISTLE. 


The sexton also stipulated, that our researches should 
take place at night, being unvwlling to excite observation, 
or give rise to scandal. 

My new acquaintance and I spent the day as became 
lovers of hoar antiquity. We visited every corner of 
these magnificent ruins again and again during the fore- 
noon ; and, having made a comfortable dinner at David’s, 
we walked in the afternoon to such places in the neigh^ 
bourhood as ancient tradition or modern conjecture had ' 
rendered mark-worthy. Night found us in the interior 
of the ruins, attended by the sexton, who carried a dark 
lantern, and stumbling alternately over the graves of 
the dead, and the fragments of that architecture, “ which 
they doubtless trusted would have canopied their bones 
till doomsday.” 

I am by no means particularly superstitious, and yet 
there was that in the present service which I did not 
very much like. There was something awful in the 
resolution of disturbing, at such an hour, and in such a 
place, the still and mute sanctity of the grave. My com- 
panions were free from this impression — the stranger from 
his energetic desire to execute the purpose for which 
he came — and the sexton, from habitual indifference. 
We soon stood in the aisle, which, by the account 
y)f the Benedictine, contained the bones of the family 
of Glendinning, and were busily employed in removing 
,the rubbish from a corner which the stranger pointed 
out. If a half-pay Captain could have represented an 
ancient Border-knight, or an ex-Benedictine of the nine- 
teenth century a wizard monk of the sixteenth, we might 
have aptly enough personified the search after Michael 
Scott’s lamp and book of magic power. But the sexton 
would have been de trop in the group.’' 

Ere the stranger, assisted by the sexton in his task, 
had been long at work, they came to some hewn stones, 
which seemed to have made part of a small shrine, 
though now displaced and destroyed. 

Let us remove these with caution, my friend,” said • 
the stranger, “ lest we injure that which I come to seek.’ 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


25 


‘‘ They are prime stanes,” said the sexton, “ picked 
free every ane of them ; — warse than the best wad never 
serve the Monks, I’se warrant.” 

A minute after he had made this observation, he ex- 
claimed, “ I hae fund something now that stands again 
the spade, as if it were neither earth nor stane.” 

The stranger stooped eagerly to assist him. 

“ Na, na, hail o’ my ain,” said the sexton ; “ nae 
halves or quarters — and he lifted from amongst the 
ruins a small leaden box. 

“ You will be disappointed my friend,” said the Ben- 
edictine, “ if you expect any thing there but the moul- 
dering dust of a human heart, closed in an inner case of 
porphyry.” 

I interposed as a neutral party, and taking the box 
from the sexton, reminded him that if there were treasure 
concealed in it, still it could not become the property of 
the finder. I then proposed, that as the place was too 
dark to examine the contents of the leaden casket, we 
should adjourn to David’s; where we might have the ad- 
vantage of light and fire while carrying on our investiga- 
tion. The stranger requested us to go before, assuring 
us that he would follow in a few minutes. 

J fancy that old Mattocks suspected these few minutes 
might be employed in effecting further discoveries 
amongst the tombs, for he glided back through a side- 
aisle to watch the Benedictine’s motions, but presently 
returned, and told me in a whisper, that “ the gentleman 
w^as on his knees amang the cauld stanes, praying like 
ony saunt.” 

I stole back, and beheld the old man actually employ- 
ed as Mattocks had informed me. The language seem- 
ed to be Latin ; and as the whispered, yet solemn accent, 
glided away through the ruined aisles, I could not help 
reflecting how long it was since they had heard the forms 
of tnat religion, for the exercise of which they had been 
reared at such cost of time, taste, labour, and expense. 

3 VOL. I. 


26 


IlfTllODUCTOllY E3PIST1.E* 


“ Come away, come away,” said I ; “ let us leave him 
to himself, Mattocks, this is no business of ours.” 

“ My certes, no. Captain,” said Mattocks ; “ ne’er- 
theless, it winna be amiss to keep an ee on him. My 
father, rest his saul, was a horse-couper, and used to say 
he never was cheated in a naig in his life, saving by a 
west-country whig frae Kilmarnock, that said a grace 
ower a dram o’ whisky. But this gentleman will be a 
Roman, I’se warrant?” 

“ You are perfectly right in that, Saunders,” said I. 

“ Ay, I hae seen twa or three of their priests that 
were chased ower here some score o’ years syne. They 
just danced like mad when they looked on the friars’ 
heads, and the nuns’ heads, in the cloister yonder ; they 
took to them like auld acquaintance like. — Od, he is not 
stirring yet, mail* than he were a througb-stane !* I never 
kend a Roman, to say kend him, but ane — mair by 
token, he was the only ane in the town token — and that 
was auld Jock of the Pend, [t wad hae been lang ere 
ye fand Jock praying in the Abbey in a thick night, wi’ 
his knees on a cauld stane. Jock liket a kirk wi’ a 
chimley in’t. Mony a merry ploy I hae had wi’ him 
down at the inn yonder ; and when he died, decently I 
wad hae earded him ; but, or I gat his grave weel how- 
kit, some of the quality, that were o’ his ain unhappy 
persuasion, had the corpse whirried away up the water, 
and buried him after their ain pleasure doubtless — they 
kend best. I wad hae made nae great charge. 1 
wadna hae excised Johnie, dead or alive. — Stay, see the 
strange gentleman is coming.” 

“ Hold the lantern to assist him. Mattocks,” said I.— 
“ This is rough walking, sir.” 

“ Yes,” replied the Benedictine ; “ I may say with 
a poet, who is doubtless familiar to you” 


* A tombstone. 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


27 


“ I should be surprised if he were,” thought I in- 
ternally. The stranger continued : 

Saint Francis be my speed ! how oft to-night 
Have my old feet stumbled at graves!'' 

“ We are now clear of the churchyard,” said I, “ and 
have but a short walk to David’s, where I hope we shall 
find a cheerful fire to enliven us after our night’s work.” 

We entered accordingly, the little parlour, into which 
Mattocks was also about to push himself with sufficient 
effrontery, when David, with a most astounding oath, ex- 
pelled him by head and shoulders, d ning his curios- 

ity, that would not let gentlemen be private in their own 
inn. Apparently mine host considered his own presence 
as no intrusion, for he crowded up to the table on which 
1 had laid down the leaden box. It was frail and wasted, 
as might be guessed, from having lain so many years in 
the ground. On opening it, we found deposited within, 
a case made of porphyry, as the stranger had announced 
to us. 

“ I fancy,” he said, “ gentlemen, your curiosity will 
not be satisfied, perhaps 1 should say that your suspi- 
cions will not be removed, unless I undo this casket ; 
yet it only contains the mouldering remains of a heart 
once the seat of the noblest thoughts.” 

He undid the box with great caution ; but the shriv- 
elled substance which it contained bore now no resem- 
blance to wffiat it might once have been, the means 
used having been apparently unequal to preserve its 
shape and colour, although they were adequate to pre- 
vent its total decay. We were quite satisfied, notwith- 
standing, that it was, what the stranger asserted, the 
remains of a human heart ; and David readily promised 
his influence in the village, which was almost co-ordinate 
with that of the Baillie himself, to silence all idle ru- 
mours. He was, moreover, pleased to favour us with 
his company to supper ; and having taken the lion’s 
share of two bottles of sherry, he not only sanctioned 


28 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


with his plenary authority the stranger’s removal of the 
heart, but, I believe, would have authorized the removal 
of the Abbey itself, were it not that ft happens consider- 
ably to advantage the worthy publican’s own custom. 

The object of the Benedictine’s visit to the land of his 
forefathers being now accomplished, he announced his 
intention of leaving us early in the ensuing day, but 
requested my company to breakfast with him before his 
departure. I came accordingly, and when we had finish- 
ed our morning’s meal, the priest took me apart, a:.d, 
pulling from his pocket a large bundle of papers, he put 
them into my hands. ‘‘ These,” said he, “ Captain 
Clutterbuck, aj; e gen uine M emp irs of the sixteenth cen- 
tury, and exhibit in a singular, and, as I think, an in- 
teresting point of view, the manners of that period. [ 
am induced to believe that their publication will not be 
an unacceptable present to the British public ; and I 
willingly make over to you any profit that may accrue 
from such a transaction.” 

I stared a little at this annunciation, and observed, 
that the hand seemed too modern for the date he assign- 
ed to the manuscript. 

“ Do not mistake me, sir,” said the Benedictine ; 
“ I did not mean to say the Memoirs were written in the 
sixteenth century, but only, that they were compiled 
from authentic materials of that period, but written in 
the taste and language of the present day. My uncle 
commenced this book ; and 1, partly to improve my habit 
of English composition, partly to divert melancholy 
thoughts, amused my leisure hours with continuing and 
concluding it. You will see the period of the story 
where my uncle leaves off his narrative, and I commence 
mine. In fact, they relate in a great measure to differ- 
ent persons, as well as to a different period.” 

Retaining the papers in my hand, 1 proceeded to state 
to him my doubts, whether, as a good Protestant, I could 
undertake or superintend a publication written probably 
in the spirit of Popery. 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


29 


“ You will find,” he said, “ no matter of contro- 
versy in these sheets, nor any sentiments stated, with 
which I trust, the good in all persuasions will not be 
willing to join. I remembered I was writing for a land 
unhappily divided from the Catholic faith ; and 1 have 
taken care to say nothing which, justly interpreted, 
could give ground for accusing me of partiality. But 
if, upon collating my narrative with the proofs to which 
1 refer you — for you will find copies of many of the 
original papers in that parcel — you are of opinion that I 
have been partial to my own faith, I freely give you 
leave to correct my errors in that respect. I own, how- 
ever, I am not conscious of this defect, and have rather 
to fear that the Catholics may be of opinion, that I have 
mentioned circumstances respecting the decay of disci- 
pline which preceded, and partly occasioned, the great 
schism, called by you the Reformation, over which I 
ought to have drawn a veil. And indeed, this is one rea- 
son why I choose the papers should appear in a foreign 
land, and pass to the press through the hands of a 
stranger.” 

To this I had nothing to reply, unless to object my 
own incompetency to the task the good father was de- 
sirous to impose upon me. On this subject he was 
pleased to say more, I fear, than his knowledge of me 
fully warranted — more, at any rate, than my modesty 
will permit me to record. At length he ended, with 
advising me, if I continued to feel the diffidence which I 
stated, to apply to some veteran of literature, whose ex- 
perience might supply my deficiencies. Upon these 
terms we parted, with mutual expressions of regard, and 
I have never since heard of him. 

After several attempts to peruse the quires of paper 
thus singularly conferred on me, in which I was inter- 
rupted by the most inexplicable fits of yawning, 1 at 
length, in a sort of despair, communicated them to our 
village club, from whom they found a more favourable 
3* VOL. I. 


30 


INTilODUCTjRY EPISTLE. 


reception than the unlucky conformation of my nerves 
had been able to afford them. They unanimously pro- 
nounced the work to be exceedingly good, and assured 
me I would be guilty of the greatest possible injury to 
our flourishing village, if I should suppress what threw 
such an interesting and radiant light upon the history of 
the ancient Monastery of St. Mary. 

At length, by dint of listening to their opinion, I be- 
came dubious of my own ; and indeed, when I heard 
passages read forth by the sonorous voice of our worthy ^ 
pastor, I was scarce more tired than I have felt myself 
at some of his own sermons. Such, and so great is the 
difference betwixt reading a thing one’s self, making 
toilsome way through all the difficulties of manuscript, 
and, as the man says in the play, “ having the same read 
to you,” — it is positively like being wafted over a creek 
in a boat, or wading through it on your feet, with the 
mud up to your knees. Still, however, there remained 
the great difficulty of finding some one who could act as 
editor, corrector at once of the press and of the Ian- ^ 
guage, which, according to the schoolmaster, was abso- 
lutely necessary. 

Since the trees walked forth to choose themselves a 
king, never was an honour so bandied about. The par- 
son would not leave the quiet of his chimney-corner — 
the Baillie pleaded the dignity of his situation, and the 
approach of the great annual fair, as reasons against 
going to Edinburgh to make arrangements for printing 
the Benedictine’s Manuscript. The schoolmaster alone 
seemed of malleable stuff ; and, desirous perhaps of em- 
ulating the fame of Jedediah Cleishbotham, evinced a 
wish to undertake this momentous commission. But a 
remonstrance from three opulent farmers, whose sons he 
had at bed, board, and schooling, for twenty pounds per 
annum a-head, came like a frost over the blossoms of 
his literary ambition, and he was compelled to decline 
the service. 

In these circumstances, sir, I apply to you, by the ad- 
vice of our little council of war, nothing doubting you 


IXTRODUCTOllY EPISTLE- 


31 


will not be disinclined to take the duty upon you, .as it 
is much connected with that in which you have distin- 
guished yourself. What I request is, that you will re- 
view, or rather revise and correct the enclosed packet, 
and prepare it for the press, by such alterations, addi- 
tions, and curtailments, as you think necessary. Forgive 
my hinting to you, that the deepest well may be exhaust- 
ed — the best corps of grenadiers, as our old general ol 
brigade expressed himself, may be used up, A few 
nints can do you no harm ; and, for the prize-money, let 
the battle be first won, and it shall be parted at the drum 
head. 1 hope you will take nothing amiss that I have 
said. I am a plain soldier, and little accustomed to com- 
pliments. 1 may add, that I should be well contented 
to march in the front with you — that is, to put my name 
with yours on the title-page. I have the honour to be, 
Sir, your unknown humble Servant, 

CuTHBERT ClUTTERBUCK. 

Village of Kennaq,uhair, 

of April, 18 

For the Author of “ Waverky,” SfC. ^ 
care of Mr. John Ballantrjne, > 

Hanover Street, EdinJburgh. ^ 








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ANSWER 


BY 

« THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY,” 

TO THE 

FOREGOING LETTER 

FROM 

CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK. 


Dear Captain, 

Do not admire, that, notwithstanding the distance and 
ceremony of your address, I return an answer in the 
terms of familiarity. The truth is, your origin and na- 
tive country are better knowm to me than even to your- 
self. You derive your respectable parentage, if I am not 
greatly mistaken, from a land which has afforded much 
pleasure, as well as profit, to those who have traded to it 
successfully. I mean that part of the terra incognita 
which is called the province of Utopia. Its productions, 
though censured by many (and some who use tea and 
tobacco without scruple) as idle and unsubstantial luxu- 
ries, have nevertheless, like many other luxuries, a gene- 
ral acceptation, and are secretly enjoyed even by those 
who express the greatest scorn and dislike of them in 
public. The dram-drinker is often the first to be 
shocked at the smell of spirits — it is not unusual to hear 
old maiden ladies declaim against scandal — the private 
book-cases of some grave-seeming men would not brook 
decent eyes — and many, I say not of the wise and learned, 
but of those most anxious to seem such, when the spring- 


34 


ANS^VER TO THE 


lock of their library is drawn, their velvet cap pulled over 
their ears, their feet insinuated into their turkey slippers, 
are to be found, were their retreats suddenly intruded 
upon, busily engaged with the last new novel. 

1 have said, the truly wise and learned disdain these 
shifts, and will open the said novel as avowedly as they 
would the lid of their snufF-box. 1 will only quote one 
instance, though 1 know a hundred. Did you know the 
celebrated Watt of Birmingham, Captain Clutterbuck 
I believe not, though, from what I am about to state, he 
would not have failed to have sought an acquaintance 
with you. It was only once my fortune to meet him, 
whether in body or in spirit it matters not. There were 
assembled about half a score of our Northern Lights, 
who had amongst them. Heaven knows how, a w^ell- 
known character of your country, Jedediah Cleishbo- 
tham. This worthy person, having come to Edinburgh 
during the Christmas vacation, had become a sort of lion 
in the place, and was led in leash from house to house 
along with the guissards, the stone-eater, and other 
amusements of the season, which “ exhibit their un- 
paralleled feats to private family-parties if required.” 
Amidst this company stood Mr. Watt, the man whose 
genius discovered the means of multiplying our national 
resources to a degree perhaps even beyond his own stu- 
pendous powers of calculation and combination ; bringing 
the treasures of the abyss to the summit of the earth — 
giving the feeble arm of rnamthe momentum of an Afrite 
— commanding manufactures to arise, as the rod of the 
prophet produced water in the desert, affording the means 
of dispensing with that time and tide which wait for no 
man, and of sailing without that wind which defied the 
commands and threats of Xerxes himself.* This potent 

* Note by Captain Clutterbuck. 

Probably the ingenious author alludes to the national adage 1 

The king said sail, 

Put the wind said no. 

Our schoolmaster (who is also a land-surveyor) thinks this whole passage rc- 
fiers to Mr. Watt’s iniprovcinenls on the sleaniT-eugine. 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


35 


commander of the elements — this abridger of time and 
space — this magician, whose cloudy machinery has pro- 
duced a change on the world, the effects of which, extra- 
ordinary as they are, are perhaps only now beginning to 
be felt — was not only the most profound man of science, 
the most successful combiner of powers and calculator of 
numbers, as adapted to practical purposes — was not only 
one of the most generally well-informed, — but one of the 
best and kindest of human beings. 

There he stood, surrounded by the little band I have 
mentioned of Northern literati, men not less tenacious, 
generally speaking, of their own fame and their own 
opinions, than the national regiments are supposed to be 
jealous of the high character which they have won upon 
service. Methinks I yet see and hear what I shall never 
see or hear again. In his eighty-fifth year, the alert, kind, 
benevolent old man, had his attention alive to every one’s 
question, his information at every one’s command. His 
talents and fancy overflowed on every subject. One 
gentleman was a deep philologist, — he talked with him on 
the origin of the alphabet as if he had been coeval with 
Cadmus ; another a celebrated critic — you would have 
said the old man had studied political economy and 
belles-lettres all his life, — of science it is unnecessary to 
speak, it was his own distinguished walk. And yet. Cap- 
tain Clutterbuck, when he spoke with your countryman 
Jedediah Cleishbotham, you would have sworn he had 
been coeval with Claver’se and Burley, with the persecu- 
tors and persecuted, and could number every shot the 
dragoons had fired at the fugitive covenanters. In fact 
we discovered that no novel of the least celebrity escaped 
his perusal, and that the gifted man of science was 
as much addicted to the productions of your native coun- 
try, (the land of Utopia aforesaid ;) in other words, as 
shameless and obstinate a peruser of novels as if he had 
been a very milliner’s apprentice of eighteen. I know 
little apology for troubling you with these things, except- 
ing the desire to commemorate a delightful evening, and y 
wish to encourage you to shake off that modest diflidence 


36 


ANSAVER TO THE 


which makes you afraid of being supposed connected 
with the fairy-land of delusive fiction. I will requite your 
tag of verse, from Horace himself, with a paraphrase for 
your own use, my dear Captain, and for that of your 
country club, excepting in reverence the clergyman and 
schoolmaster : — 


Ne sit ancillm tibi amor 'pudori, 
Take ihou no scorn, 

Of fiction born, 

Fair fiction’s muse to woo ; 
Old Homer’s theme 
Was but a dream, 
Himself a fiction too. 


% 


Having told you your country, I must next, my dear 
Captain Clutterbuck, make free to mention your own im- 
mediate descent. You are not to suppose your land of 
prodigies so little known to us as the careful conceal- 
ment of your origin would seeui to imply. But you have 
it in common with many of your country, studiously and 
anxiously to hide any connexion wdth it. There is this 
difference, indeed, betwixt your countrymen and those 
of our more material world, that many of the most esti- 
mable of them, such as an old Highland gentleman called 
Ossian, a monk of Bristol called Rowley, and others, 
are inclined to pass themselves off as denizens of the 
land of reality, whereas most of our fellow^-citizens who 
deny their country are such as that country would be 
very willing to disclaim. The especial circumstances 
you mention relating to your life and services, impose not 
upon us. We know the versatility of the unsubstantial 
species to which you belong permits them to assume all 
manner of disguises; we have seen them apparelled in 
the caftan of a Persian,and the silken robe of a Chinese,* 
and are prepared to suspect their real character under 
every disguise. But how can we be ignorant of your 
country and manners, or deceived by the evasion of its 


* See “ The Persian Letters,” and The Citizen of tlie World.” 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


37 


inhabitants, when the voyages of discovery which have 
been made to it, rival in number those recorded by Pur- 
chas or by Hackluyt ?* And to show the skill and per- 
severance of your navigators and travellers, we have only 
to name Sinbad, Aboulfouaris, and Robinson Crusoe. 
These were the men for discoveries. Could we have 
sent Captain Greenland to look out for the north-west 
passage, or Peter Wilkins to examine Baffin’s Bay, what 
discoveries might we not have expected ! But there are 
feats, and these both numerous and extraordinary, per- 
formed by the inhabitants of your country, which we 
read without once attempting to emulate. 

I wander from my purpose, which was to assure you, 
that I know you as well as the mother who did not bear 
you, for Mac-Duff’s peculiarity sticks to your whole 
race. You are not born of woman, unless, indeed, in 
that figurative sense, in which the celebrated Maria 
Edgeworth may, in her state of single blessedness, be 
termed mother of the finest family in England. You be- 
long, sir, to the editors of the land of Utopia, a sort of 
persons for whom I have the highest esteem. How is it 
possible it should be otherwise, when you reckon among 
your corporation the sage Cid Harnet Benengeli, the 
short-faced president of the Spectator’s club, poor Ben 
Silton, and many others, who have acted as gentlemen- 
ushers to works which have cheered our heaviest, and 
added wings to our lightest hours ? 

What I have remarked as peculiar to Editors of the 
class in which I venture to enrol you, is the happy com- 
bination of fortuitous circumstances which usually put 
you in possession of the works which you have the good- 
ness to bring into public notice. One walks on the sea- 
shore, and a wave casts on land a small cylindrical trunk 
or casket, containing a manuscript much damaged with 
sea-water, which is with difficulty deciphered, and so 
forth. f Another steps into a chandler’s shop to pur- 

* See "Les Voyages Tmaginaires." 

t See the h.»*ory of Automalhes. 

4 VOL. I. 


38 


AIfSV.ER TO THE 


chase a pound of butter, and behold ! the waste-paper 
on which it is laid is the manuscript of a cabalist.* A 
third is so fortunate as to obtain from a woman who lets 
lodgings, the curious contents of an antique bureau, the 
property of a deceased lodger. f All these are certainly 
possible occurrences ; but I know not how, they seldom 
occur to any Editors save those of your country. At 
least I can answer for myself, that in my solitary walks 
by the sea, I never saw it cast ashore any thing but dulse 
and tangle, and now and then a deceased star-fish ; my 
landlady never presented me with any manuscript save 
her cursed bill ; and the most interesting of my discove- 
ries in the way of waste-paper, was finding a favourite 
passage of one of my own novels wrapt round an ounce 
of snufF. No, Captain, the funds from which 1 have 
drawn my power of amusing the public, have been bought 
otherwise than by fortuitous adventure. I have buried 
myself in libraries to extract from the nonsense of an- 
cient days new nonsense of my own. I have turned 
over volumes, which, from the pot-hooks I was obliged 
to decipher, might have been the cabalistic manuscripts 
of Cornelius Agrippa, although I never saw “ the door 
open and the devil come in.”J But all the domestic in- 
habitants of the libraries were disturbed by the vehe- 
mence of my studies ; — 

From my research the boldest spider fled, 

And moths, retreating, trembled as I read. 

From this learned sepulchre I emerged like the Magi- 
cian in the Persian Tales from his twelvemonth’s resi- 
dence in the mountain, not like him to soar over the 
heads of the multitude, but to mingle in the crowd, and 
to elbow amongst the throng, making my way from the 
highest society to the lowest, undergoing the scorn, or. 
what is harder to brook, the patronizing condescension 

Adventures of a Guinea, 
t Adventures of an Atom. 

T See Southey's Ballad on the young Man who read in a Conjuror’s Books 


INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE. 


39 


of the one, and enduring tlie vulgar familiarity of the 
other, — and all, you will say, for what ? — to collect ma- 
terials for one of those manuscripts with which mere 
chance so often accommodates your countrymen ; in 
other words, to write a successful novel. — “ O, Athenians, 
how hard we labour to deserve your praise !” 

I might stop here, my dear Clutterbuck ; it would 
have a touching effect, and the air of proper deference 
to our dear Public. But I will not be false with you, 
— (though falsehood is — excuse the observation — the 
current coin of your country) the truth is, I have studied 
and lived for the purpose of gratifying my own curiosi- 
ty, and passing my own time ; and though the 
result has been, that, in one shape or other, I have been 
frequently before the public, perhaps more frequently than 
prudence warranted, yet 1 cannot claim from them the 
favour due to those who have dedicated their ease and 
leisure to the improvement and entertainment of others. 

Having communicated thus freely with you, my dear 
Captain, it follows, of course, that I will gratefully accept 
of your communication, which, as "your Benedictine 
observed, divides itself both by subject, manner, and 
age, into two parts. But I am sorry I cannot gratify 
your literary ambition, by suffering your name to appear 
upon the title-page ; and I will candidly tell you the 
reason. 

The editors of your country are of such a soft and 
passive disposition, that they have frequently done them- 
selves great disgrace by giving up the coadjutors who 
first brought them into public notice and public favour, 
and suffering their names to be used by those quacks and 
impostors who live upon the ideas of others. Thus I 
shame to tell how the sage Cid Hamet Benengeli was 
induced by one Juan Avellaneda to play the Turk with 
the ingenious Miguel Cervantes, and to publish a second 
part of the adventures of his hero the renowned Don 
Quixote, without the knowledge or co-operation of his 
principal aforesaid. It is true, the Arabian sage return- 
ed to his allegiance, and thereafter composed a genu- 


40 


AXSWER TO THE 


irie continuation of the Knight of La Mancha, in which 
the said Avellaneda of Tordesillas is severely chastised. 
For in this you pseudo-editors resemble tlie juggler’s 
disciplined ape, to which a sly old Scotchman likened 
James I., “ if you have Jackoo in your hand, you can 
make him bite me ; if I have Jackoo in my hand, I can 
make him bite you.” Yet, notwithstanding the amende 
honorable thus made by Cid Hamet Benengeli, his tem- 
porary defection did not the less occasion the decease oi 
the ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote, if he can be said 
to die, whose memory is immortal. Cervantes put him 
to death, lest he should again fall into bad hands. Aw- 
ful, yet just consequence of Cid Hamet’s defection ! 

To quote a more modern and much less important in- 
stance. I am sorry to observe my old acquaintance Jed- 
ediah Cleishbotham has misbehaved himself so far as to 
desert his original patron, and set up for himself. I am 
afraid the poor pedagogue will make little by his new al- 
lies, unless the pleasure of entertaining the public, and, 
for aught I know, the gentlemen of the long robe, with 
disputes about his identity.* Observe, therefore, Cap- 
tain Clutterbuck, that, wise by these great examples, I 
receive you as a partner, but a sleeping partner only. 
As I give you no title to employ or use the firm of the 
copartnery we are about to form, I will announce my 
property in my title-page, and put my own mark on my 
own chattels, which the attorney tells me it will be a crime 
to counterfeit, as much as it would to imitate the auto- 
graph of any other empiric — a crime amounting, as ad- 
vertisements upon little vials assure us, to nothing short 
of felony. If, therefore, my dear friend, your name 
should hereafter appear in any title-page without mine, 


* I am since more correctly informed, that Mr. Cleishbotham died some 
months since at Gandercleugh, and that the person assuming’ his name is an im- 
postor. The real Jedediah made a most Christian and edif^dng- end ; and, as I 
am credibly informed, having^ sent for a Cameronian clerg'yman when he was 
in extremis, was so fortunate as to convince the good man, that, after all, he had 
no wish to bring down on the scattered remnant of Mountain folks, “ the lion- 
nets of Bonny Dundee.” Hard that the sfieculators in [>rint atid paper wiH not 
allow a good man to rest quiet in his grave ! 8 


INTRODUCTORY ETISTLE. 


41 


readers will know what to think of you. 1 scorn to 
use either arguments or threats ; but you cannot but be 
sensible, that, as you owe your literary existence to me 
on the one hand, so, on the other, your very all is at my 
disposal. I can at pleasure cut off your annuity, strike 
your name from the half-pay establishment, nay, actually 
put you to death, without being answerable to any one. 
These are plain words to a gentleman who has served 
during the whole war ; but, 1 am aware, you will lake 
nothing amiss at my hands. 

<1 And now, my good sir, let us address ourselves to our 
%sk, and arrange as we best can the manuscript of youi 
Benedictine, so as to suit the taste of this critical age. 
You will find I have made very liberal use of his per- 
mission, to alter whatever seemed too favourable to the 
Church of Rome, which I abominate, were it but for her 
fasts and penances. 

Our reader is doubtless impatient, and we must own, 
with John Bunyan, 

We hare too long detained him in the porch, 

And kept him from the sunshine with a torch. 

Adieu, therefore, my dear Captain — remember me re- 
spectfully to the parson, the schoolmaster, and the Bail- 
lie, and all friends of the happy club in the village of 
Kennaquhair. I have never seen, and never shall see, 
one of their faces ; and notwithstanding, I believe that as 
yet I am better acquainted with them than any other man 
who lives. — I shall soon introduce you to my jocund 
friend, Mr. John Ballantyne of Trinity-Grove, whom you 
will find warm from his match at single-stick with a 
brother publisher.^ Peace to their differences ! It is a 
wrathful trade, and the irritabile genus comprehends the 
bookselling as well as the book-writing species. — Once 
more adieu ! 

The Author of Waverley. 

4* VOL. I. 



THE MONASTERY, 


CHAPTER I. 

0 ay ! the Monks, the Monks they did the mischief 
Theirs all the grossness, all the superstition 

Of a most gross and superstitious ag'e — 

May He be praised that sent the healthful tempest 
And scatter'd all these pestilential vapours ! 

But that we owed them all to yonder Harlot 
Throned on the seven hills with her cup of g'old, 

1 will as soon believe, with kind Sir Roger, 

That old Moll White took wing with cat and broomstick, 
And raised the leist night's thunder. 

Old Play. 


The village described in the Benedictine’s manuscript 
by the name of Kennaquhair, bears the same Celtic ter- 
mination which occurs in Traquhair, Caquhair, and other 
compounds. The learned Chalmers derives this word 
Quhair, from the winding course of a stream ; a defi- 
nition which coincides in a remarkable degree with the 
serpentine turns of the river Tweed near the village- of 
which we speak. It has been long famous for the 
splendid Monastery of Saint Mary, founded by David 
the First of Scotland, in whose reign were formed, in the 
same county, the no less splendid establishments of Mel- 
rose, Jedburgh, and Kelso. The donations of land with 
which the King endowed these wealthy fraternities procur- 
ed him from the Monkish historians the epithet of Saint, 
and from one of his impoverished descendants the splenetic 
censure, “ that he had been a sore saint for the Crown.” 


44 


THE mo:yastkiiy. 


It seems probable, notwithstanding, that David, who 
was a wise as well as a pious Monarch, was not moved 
solely by religious motives to those great acts of munifi- 
cence to the church, but annexed political views to his 
pious generosity. His possessions in Northumberland 
and Cumberland became precarious after the loss of the 
Battle of the Standard ; and since the comparatively 
fertile valley of Teviotdale was likely to become the 
frontier of his kingdom, it is probable he wished to 
secure at least a part of these valuable possessions by 
placing them in the hands of the monks, whose property 
was for a long time respected, even amidst the ragfr^of 
a frontier war. In this manner alone had the King s(^e 
chance of insuring protection and security to the culti- 
vators of the soil ; and, in fact, for several ages the 
possessions of these Abbeys w'ere each a sort of Goshen, 
enjoying the calm light of peace and immunity, while the 
rest of the country, occupied by wild clans and maraud- 
ing barons, was one dark scene of confusion, blood, and 
unremitted outrage. 

But these immunities did not continue down to the 
union of the crowns. Long before that period the wars 
betwixt England and Scotland had lost their original 
character of international hostilities, and had become on 
the part of the English a struggle for subjugation, on that 
of the Scots a desperate and infuriated defence of their 
liberties. This introduced on both sides a degree of fury 
and animosity unkno^vn to the earlier period of their 
history ; and as religious scruples soon gave way to na- 
tional hatred spurred by a love of plunder, the patrimo- 
ny of the Church was no longer sacred from incursions 
on either side. Still, however, the tenants and vassals 
of the great Abbeys had many advantages over those of 
the lay barons, who were harassed by constant military 
duty, until they became desperate, and lost all relish 
for the arts of peace. The vassals of the church, on 
the other hand, were only liable to be called to arms on 
general occasions, and at other times were permitted in 


THE MOXASTERY. 


45 


comparative quiet to possess their farms and fcus.'^ 
Xiicy of course exhibited superior skill in every thing 
that related to the cultivation of the soil, and were there- 
fore both w'ealthier and better informed than the military 
retainers of the restless chiefs and nobles in their neigh- 
bourliood. 

The residence of these church vassals was usually in 
^ a small village or hamlet, where, for the sake of mutual 
aid and^ j^otection, some thirty or forty families dw^elt to- 
gether. xliis was called the Town, and the land belong- 
ing tb the various families by whom the Town was inhab- 
was called the Township. They usually possessed 
land in common, though in various proportions, 
according to their several grants. The part of the 
Township properly arable, and kept as such continually 
under the plough, was called in-field. Here the use of 
quantities of manure supplied in some degree the ex- 
haustion of the soil, and the feuars raised tolerable oats 
and bear,f usually sou'ed on alternate ridges, on which 
the labour of the whole community was bestowed with- 
out distinction, the produce being divided after harvest, 
agreeably to their respective interests. 

There was, besides, out-Jield land, from which it was 
thought possible to extract a crop now' and then, after 
which it was abandoned to the “ skiey influences,” until 
the exhausted powders of vegetation were restored. 
These out-field spots w'ere selected by any feuar at his 
owm choice, amongst the sheep-walks and hills which 
were always annexed to the Township, to serve as pas- 
turage to the community. The trouble of cultivating 
these patches of out-field, and the precarious chance 
that the crop would pay the labour, were considered as 


* Small possessions conferred upon vassals and their heirs, held for a small 
quit-rent, or a moderate proportion of the produce. This was a favourite man- 
ner, by which the churchmen peopled the patrimony of their convents ; and 
many descendants of such feuars, as they are called, are still to be found in 
possession of their family inheritances in the neighbourhood of the great Monas 
teries of Scotland. 

t Or bigg, a coarse kind of barley. 


46 


THE MOXASTERT. 


giving a right to any fenar, who chose to undertake the 
adventure, to the produce which might result from it.,> 

There remained the pasturage of extensive moprs, 
where the valleys often afforded gQod grass, ana cipon 
which the whole cattle belonging to the commynifyTed 
indiscriminately during the summer, under the clUlge of 
the Town-herd, who regularly drove them out to pasture 
in the morning, and brought them backet night, with(^it 
which precaution they would have fallen a sp| ^ y 
to some of the Snatchers in the neighbourhood. 
are things to make modern agriculturists hold up j||H 
hands and stare ; but the same mode of cultivati^Hp 
not yet entirely in desuetude in some distant parcWf 
North Britain, and may be witnessed in full force and 
exercise in the Zetland Archipelago. 

The habitations of the church- feuars were not less 
primitive than their agriculture. In each village or 
town were several small towers, having battlements pro- 
jecting over the side-walls, and usually an advanced angle 
or two with shot-holes for flanking the door-way, which 
was always defended by a strong door of oak, studded 
with nails, and often by an exterior grated door of iron. 
These small peel-houses were ordinarily inhabited by 
the principal feuars and their families ; but upon the 
alarm of approaching danger, the whole inhabitants 
thronged from their own miserable cottages, which were 
situated around, to garrison these points of defence. It 
was then no easy matter for a hostile party to penetrate 
into the village, for the men were habituated to the use 
of bows and fire-arms, and the towers being generally so 
placed, that the discharge from one crossed that of anoth- 
er ; it was impossible to assault any of them individually. 

The interior of these houses was usually sufficiently 
wretched, for it would have been folly to have furnished 
them in a manner whicl) could excite the avarice of their 
lawless neighbours. Yet the families themselves exhibited 
in their appearance a degree of comfort, information, and 
independence, which could hardly have been expected. 
Their in-field supplied them with bread and home-brew- 


TliE MONASTERY. 


47 


ed ale, their herds and flocks with beef and mutton, (the 
extravagance of killing lambs or calves was never thought 
oT.) Each family killed a mart, or fat bullock, in No- 
vember, which was salted up for winter use, to wliich the 
good wife could, upon great occasions, add a dish of 
pigeons or a fat capon,- — the ill-cultivated garden afforded 
— and the river gave salmon to serve as a 
relish d^ing the season of lent. 

f Ofi' fu'el they had plenty, for the bogs afforded turf ; 
^and the remains of the abused woods continued to give 
, th^i^logs for burning, as well as timber for the usual do- 
mestic purposes. In addition to these comforts, the good 
man would now and then sally forth to the greenwood, 
and mark down a buck oj season with his gun or his 
cross-bow ; and the Father Confessor seldom refused him 
absolution for the trespass, if duly invited to take his 
share of the smoking haunch. Some, still bolder, made, 
either with their own domestics or by associating them- 
selves with the moss-troopers, in the language of shep- 
herds, “ a start and overloup and the golden orna- 
ments and silken head-gear worn by the females of one 
or two families of note, were invidiously traced by their 
neighbours to such successful excursions. This, how- 
ever^ was a more inexpiable crime in the eyes of the 
Abbot and Community of St. Mary’s, than the borrow- 
ing one of the “ gude king’s deer and they failed not 
to discountenance and punish, by every means in their 
power, offences which were sure to lead to severe re- 
taliation upon the property of the church, and which 
tended to alter the character of their peaceful vassalage. 

As for the information possessed by those dependants 
of the Abbacies, they might have been truly said to be 
better fed than taught, even though their fare had 
been worse than it was. Still, however, they enjoyed 
opportunities of knowledge from which others were ex- 
cluded. The Monks were in general well acquainted 
with their vassals and tenants, and familiar in the families 
of the better class among them, where they were sure to 
be received with the respect due to their twofold char- 


43 


THE MONASTERY. 


acter of spiritual father and secular landlord. Thus it 
often happened, when a hoy displayed talents and inclina- 
tion for study, one of the brethren, with a view to his 
being bred to the church, or out of good-nature, in 
order to pass away his own idle time if he had no better 
motive, initiated him into the mysteries of ready^and 
writing, and imparted to him such other kno\j|pn^H^ 
he himself possessed. And the heads of th«e allied^ 
families, having more time for reflection, and more skill, y 
as well as stronger motives for improving tlJ^ii^malll^J 
properties, bore amongst their neighbours the characWTof^ 
shrewd, intelligent men, who claimed respect on account 
of their comparative wealth, even, while they were d^§- 
pised for a less warlike and enterprizing turn than the 
other Borderers. They lived as much as they well coidd 
amongst themselves, avoiding the company of others, and 
dreading nothing more than to be involved in the deadly 
feuds and ceaseless contentions of the secular landholders. 

Such is a general picture of these communities. 
During the fatal wars in the commencement of Queen 
Mary’s reign, they had suffered dreadfully by the hostile 
invasions. For the English, now a Protestant peo])le, 
were so far from sparing the church-lands, that they for- 
ayed them with more unrelenting severity than even the 
possessions of the laity. But the peace of 1550 had 
restored some degree of tranquillity to these distracted 
and harassed regions, and matters began again gradually 
to settle upon the former footing. The Monks repaired 
their ravaged shrines — the feuar again roofed his small 
fortalice, which the enemy had ruined — the poor labourer 
rebuilt his cottage — an easy task, where a few sods, stones, 
and a few pieces of wood from the next copse, furnished 
all the materials necessary. The cattle, lastly, were 
driven out of the wastes and thickets in which the rem- 
nant of them had been secreted ; and the mighty bull 
moved at the head of his seraglio and their followers, 
to take possession of their wonted pastures. There en- 
sued peace and quiet, the state of the age and nation 


THE MOJNASTEllY. 


49 


considered, to the Monastery of Saint Mary, and its de 
pendencies, for several tranquil years. 



CHAPTER II. 

la yon lone vale his early youth was bred, 

Not solitary then — the bugle -horn 
Of fell Alecto often waked its windings, 

From where the brook joins the majestic river, 

To the wild northern bog, the curlieu’s haunt. 

Where oozes forth its first and feeble streamlet. 

Old Play. 


We have said, that most of the feuars dwelt in the vil- 
lage belonging to their townships. This W'as not, how- 
ever, universally the case. A lonely tower, to which 
the reader must now be introduced, was at least one 
exception to the general rule. 

It was of small dimensions, yet larger than those 
which occurred in the village, as intimating that in case 
of assault, the proprietor would have to rely upon his own 
unassisted strength. Two or three miserable huts, at 
the foot of the fortalice, held the bondsmen and tenants 
of the feuar. The site was a beautiful green knoll, 
which started up suddenly in the very throat of a wild 
and narrow glen, and which, being surrounded, except 
on one side, by the winding of a small stream, afforded 
a position of considerable strength. 

But the great security of Glendearg, for so the place 
was called, lay in its secluded and almost hidden situation. 
To reach the Tower, it was necessary to travel three miles 
up the glen, crossing about twenty times the little stream, 
which, winding through the narrow valley, encountered 
at every hundred yards the opposition of a rock or pre- 
cipitous bank on the one side, which altered its course, 

5 VOL. I. 


50 


THE M05ASTi HY. 


and caused it to shoot off In an oblique direction to (he 
other. The hills which ascend on each side of this glen 
are very steep, and rise boldly over the stream, which 
is thus imprisoned within their barriers. The sides of 
the glen are impracticable for horse, and are only to 
be traversed by means of the sheep-paths which li e alo ng 
their sides. It would not be readily supposed tljAt a roai^ 
so hopeless and so difficult could lead to any fffebitation 
more important than the summer shealing of a shepherd. 

Yet the glen, though lonely, nearly inaccessible and 
sterile, was not then absolutely void of beauty. Th^urf 
which covered the small portion of level ground on the 
sides of the stream, was as close and verdant as if it had oc- 
cupied the scythes of a hundred gardeners once a fort- 
night ; and it was garnished with an embroidery of daisies 
and wild flowers, which the scythes would certainly have 
destroyed. The little brook, now confined betwixt closer 
limits, now left at large to choose its course through the 
narrow valley, danced carelessly on from stream to pool, 
light and unturbid, as that better class of spirits who pass 
their way through life, yielding to insurmountable obsta- 
cles, but as far from being subdued by them as the sailor 
who meets by chance with an unfav^ourable wind, and 
shapes his course so as to be driven back as little as 
possible. 

The mountains, as they would have been called in 
England, Scottice the steep hraes, rose abruptly over the 
little glen, here presenting the grey face of a rock, from 
which the turf had been peeled by the torrents, and there 
displaying patches of wood and copse, which had 
escaped the waste of the cattle and the sheep of the 
feuars, and which, feathering naturally up the beds of 
empty torrents, or occupying the concave recesses of 
the bank, gave at once beauty and variety to the land- 
scape. Above these scattered woods rose the hill, in 
barren, but purple majesty ; the dark rich hue, particu- 
larly in autumn, contrasting beautifully with the thickets 
of oak and birch, the mountain -ashes and thorns, the 
alders and quivering aspens, which chequered and varied 


THE MONASTERY. 


5J 


the descent, and not less with the dark-green and velvet 
turf, which composed the level part of the narrow glen. 

Yet though thus embellished, the scene could neither 
be strictly termed sublime or beautiful, and scarcely 
even picturesque or striking. But its extreme solitude 
piessedon the heart j the traveller felt that uncertainty 
.whither he was going, or in what so wild a path was to 
terminate, which at times, strikes more on the imagination 
than the grand features of a show-scene, when you 
know the exact distance of the inn where your dinner is 
bespoke, and at the moment preparing. These are 
ideas, however, of a far later age ; for at the time we 
treat of, the picturesque, the beautiful, the sublime, and 
all their intermediate shades, were ideas absolutely un- 
known to the inhabitants and occasional visiters of 
Glendearg. 

These had, however, attached to the scene feelings 
fitting the time. Its name, signifying the Red Valley, 
seems to have been derived, not only from the purple 
colour of the heath, \yith which the upper part of the 
rising banks was profusely clothed, but also from the dark 
red colour of the rocks, and of the precipitous earthen 
banks, which in that country are called scaurs. Another 
glen about the head of Ettrick, has acquired the same 
name from similar circumstances ; and there are proba- 
bly more in Scotland to which it has been given. 

As our Glendearg did not abound in mortal visitants, 
superstition, that it might not be absolutely destitute of 
inhabitants, had peopled its recesses with beings belong- 
ing to another world. The savage and capricious Brown 
Man of the Moors, a being which seems the genuine 
descendant of the northern dwarfs, was supposed to be 
seen there frequently, especially after the autumnal equi- 
nox, when the fogs were thick, and objects not easily 
distinguished. The Scottish fairies, too, a whimsical, 
irritable, and mischievous tribe, who, though at times ca- 
priciously benevolent, were more frequently adverse to 
mortals, were also supposed to have formed a residence 
in a particularly wild recess of the glen, of which the 


52 THE MONASTEHY. 

real name was, in allusion lo that circumstance, Corrie 
nan Shian, which, in corrupted Celtic, signifies the Hol- 
low of the Fairies. But the neighbours were more cau- 
tious in speaking about this place, and avoided giving 
it a name, from an idea common then throughout all. the 
British and Celtic provinces of Scotland, and still retain- 
ed in many places, that to speak either good or ill of. 
this capricious race of imaginary beings, is to provoke 
their resentment, and that secrecy and silence is what 
they chiefly desire from those who may intrude upon 
their revels, or discover their haunts. 

A mysterious terror was thus attached to the dale, 
which afforded access from the broad valley of the 
Tweed, up the little glen we have described, to the for- 
talice called the Tower of Glendearg. Beyond the 
knoll, where, as we have said, the tower was situated, 
the hills grew more steep, and narrowed on the slender 
brook, so as scarce to leave a foot-path ; and there the 
glen terminated in a wild water-fall, where a slender 
thread of water dashed in a precipitous line of foam 
over two or three precipices. Yet farther in the same 
direction, and above these successive cataracts, lay a wild 
and extensive morass, frequented only by water-fowl, 
wide, waste, apparently almost interminable, and serving 
in a great measure to separate the inhabitants of the 
glen from those who lived to the northward. 

To restless and indefatigable moss-troopers, indeed, 
these morasses were well known, and sometimes afford- 
ed a retreat. They often rode down the glen — called 
at this tower — asked and received hospitality — but still 
with a sort of reserve on the part of its more peaceful 
inhabitants, who entertained them as a party of North 
American Indians might be received by a new European 
settler, as much out of fear as hospitality, while the up- 
permost wish of the landlord is the speedy departure of 
the savage guests. 

This had not always been the current of feeling in 
the little valley and its tower. Simon Glendinning, its 
former inhabitant, boasted his connexion by blood to that 


T ll E M C FASTER V. 


53 


ancient family of Glendonwyne, on the western border. 
He used to narrate, at his fire-side, in the autumn 
evenings, the feats of the family to which he belonged, 
one of whom fell by the side of the brave Earl of Doug- 
las, at Otterbourne. On these occasions Simon usually 
held upon his knee an ancient broad-sword, which had be- 
Jongedjto his ancestors before any of the family had 
consented to accept a fief under the peaceful dominion 
of the Monks of St. Mary’s. In modern days, Simon 
might have lived at ease on his own estate, and quietly 
murmured against the fate that had doomed him to dwell 
there, and cut off his access to martial renown. But so 
many opportunities, nay, so many calls there were for 
him, who in those days spoke big, to make good his 
words by his actions, that Simon Glendinning was soon 
under the necessity of inarching with the men of the 
Halidome, as it was called, of Saint Mary’s, in that dis- 
astrous campaign which was concluded by the battle of 
Pinkie. 

The Catholic clergy were deeply interested in that 
national quarrel, the principal object of which was, to 
prevent the union of the infant Queen Mary with the son 
of the heretical Henry VIII. The Monks had called 
out their vassals, under an experienced leader. Many 
of themselves had taken arms, and marched to the field, 
under a banner representing a female, supposed to per- 
sonify the Scottish Church, kneeling in the attitude of 
prayer, with the legend, AJfiictce SponscB 7ie obliviscaris.^ 

The Scots, however, in all their wars, had more oc- 
casion for good and cautious generals than for excitation, 
whether political or enthusiastic. Their headlong and 
impatient courage uniformly induced them to rush into 
action without duly weighing either their own situation, 
or that of their enemies, and the inevitable consequence 
was frequent defeat. With the dolorous slaughter of 


* Forget not the afflicted Spouse. 
5 * VOL. I. 


54 


THE MONASTERY. 


Pinkie vve have nothing to do, excepting that, among ten 
thousand men of low and high degree, Simon Glendin- 
ning, of the Tower of Glendearg, bit the dust, no way- 
disparaging in his death that ancient race from wiiich he 
claimed his descent. 

When the doleful news, which spread terror and 
mourning through the whole of Scotland, reached th^ 
tower of Glendearg, the widow of Simon, Elspeth Bry- 
done by her family name, was alone in that desolate habi- 
tation, excepting a hind or two, alike past martial and 
agricultural labour, and the helpless widows and families 
of those who had fallen with their master. The feeling 
of desolation was universal ; — but what availed it ? The 
Monks, their patrons and protectors, were driven from 
their Abbey by the English forces, who now overran the 
country, and compelled at least an appearance of submis- 
sion on the part of the inhabitants. The protector, Som- 
erset, formed a strong camp among the ruins of the 
ancient Castle of Roxburgh, and compelled the neigh- 
bouring country to come in, pay tribute, and take assur- 
ance from him, as the phrase then went. Indeed, there 
was no power of resistance remaining; and the few bar- 
ons, whose high spirit disdained even the appearance of 
surrender, could only retreat into the wildest fastnesses 
of the country, leaving their houses and property to the 
wrath of the English, who detached parties every- 
where, to distress, by military exaction, those whose 
chiefs had not made their submission. The Abbot and 
his community having retreated beyond the Forth, their 
lands were severely forayed, as their sentiments were 
held peculiarly inimical to the alliance with England. 

Amongst the troops detached on this service was a 
small party, commanded by Stawarth Bolton, a captain 
in the English army, and full of the blunt and unpretend- 
ing gallantry and generosity which have so often distin- 
guished that nation. Resistance was in vain. Elspeth 
Brydone, when she descried a dozen of horsemen thread- 
ing their way up the glen, with a man at their head, whose 
scarlet cloak, bright armour, and dancing plume, pro- 


THE MONASTERY. 


55 


claimed him a leader, saw no better protection for her- 
self than to issue from the iron gate, covered with a long 
mourning veil, and holding one of her two sons in each 
hand, to meet the Englishman — state her deserted con- 
dition — place the little tower at his command — and beg 
for his mercy. She stated, in a few brief words, her 
intention, and added, “ I submit, because I have nae 
means of resistance.” 

“ And I do not ask your submission, mistress, for 
the same reason,” replied the Englishman. “ To be 
satisfied of your peaceful intentions is all I ask ; and, 
from what you tell me, there is no reason to doubt them.” 

“ At least, sir,” said Elspeth Brydone, “ take share 
of what our spence and our garners afford. Your horses 
are tired — your folk want refreshment.” 

“ Not a whit — not a whit,” answered the honest Eng- 
lishman ; “ it shall never be said we disturbed by ca- 
rousal the widow of a brave soldier, while she was 
mourning for her husband. — Comrades, face about. — 
Yet stay,” he added, checking his war-horse, “ my par- 
ties are out in every direction ; they must have some 
token that your family are under my assurance of safety. 
— Here, my little fellow,” said he, speaking to the 
eldest boy, who might be about nine or ten years old, 
“ lend me thy bonnet.” 

The child reddened, looked sulky, and hesitated, while 
the mother, with many a fye and nay pshaw, and such 
sarsenet chidings as tender mothers give to spoiled chil- 
dren, at length succeeded in snatching the bonnet from 
him, and handing it to the English leader. 

Stawarth Bolton took his embroidered red cross from 
his barret-cap, and putting it into the loop of the boy’s 
bonnet, said to the mistress, (for the title of lady was not 
given to dames of her degree,) “ by this token, which 
all my people will respect, you will be freed from any 
importunity on the part of our forayers.”^® He placed it 
on the boy’s head ; but it was no sooner there, than the 
little fellow, his veins swelling, and his eyes shooting fire 
through tears, snatched the bonnet from his head, and 


56 


/ 


THE MOXASTERY. 


ere his motlier could interfere, skimmed it into the 
brook. The other boy ran instantly to fish it out again, 
threw it back to his brother, first taking out the cross, 
which, with great veneration, he kissed, and put into his 
bosom. The Englishman was half diverted, half sur- 
prised with the scene. 

“ What mean ye by throwing away St. George’^ red 
cross said he to the elder boy, in a tone betwixt jest 
and earnest. 

“ Because Saint George is a southern saint,” said the 
child, sulkily. 

“Good! — ’’said Stawarth Bolton. “ And what did 
you mean by taking it out of the brook again, my little 
fellow he demanded of the younger. 

“ Because the priest says it is the common sign of 
salvation to all good Christians.” 

“ Why, good again !” said the honest soldier. “ I 
protest unto you, mistress, I envy you these boys. Are 
they both yours .^” 

Stawarth Bolton had reason to put the question, for 
Halbert Glendinning, the elder of the two, had hair as 
dark as the raven’s plumage, black eyes, large, bold, 
and sparkling, that glittered under eyebrows of tbe same 
complexion ; a skin deep embrowned, though it could 
not be termed swarthy, and an air of activity, frankness, 
and determination, far beyond his age. On the other 
hand, Edward, the younger brother, was light-haired, 
blue-eyed, and of fairer complexion, in countenance rath- 
er pale, and not exhibiting that rosy hue which colours the 
sanguine cheek of robust health. Yet the boy had 
nothing sickly or ill-conditioned in his look, but was, on 
the contrary, a fair and handsome child, with a smiling 
face, and mild, yet cheerful eye. 

The mother glanced a proud motherly glance, first 
at the one, and then at the other, ere she answered the 
Englishman, “ Surely, sir, they are both my children.” 

“ And by the same father, mistress .^” said Stawarth ; 
but, seeing a blush of displeasure arbe on her brow, he 
instantly added, “ Nay, I mean no offence ; I would 


THE MONASTERY. 


57 


have asked the same question at any of my gossips in 
Merry Lincoln. — Well, dame, you have two fair boys ; 
I would I could borrow one, for Dame Bolton and I live 
childless in our old hall. — Come, little fellows, which of 
you will go with me 

The trembling mother, half-fearing as he spoke, drew 
tlie children towards her, one with either hand, w hile they 
both answered the stranger. “ I will not go with you,” 
said Halbert boldly, “ for you are a false-hearted south- 
ern ; and the southerns killed my father ; and I will war 
on you to the death, when I can draw my father’s sw^ord.” 

“ God-a-mercy, my little levin-bolt,” said Stawarth, 
“ the goodly custom of deadly feud will never go dowm 
in thy day, I presume. — And you, my fine white-head, 
will you not go with me, to ride a cock-horse .^” 

“ No,” said Edward, demurely, “ for you are a 
heretic.” 

“ Why, God-a-mercy still!” said Stawarth Bolton. 
“ Well, dame, I see I shall find no recruits for my troop 
from you ; and yeti do envy you these two little chubby 
knaves.” He sighed a moment, as was visible, in spite 
of gorget and corslet, and then added, “ and yet my 
dame and 1 would but quarrel which of the knaves we 
shodld like best, for I should wash for the black-eyed 
rogue — and she, I warrant me, for that blue-eyed, fair- 
haired darling. Natheless, we must brook our solitary 
wedlock, and wish joy to those that are more fortunate. 
— Sergeant Brittson, do thou remain here till recalled — 
protect this family, as under assurance — do them no 
wrong, and suffer no wrong to be done to them, as thou 
wilt answer it. — Dame, Brittson is a married man, old 
and steady ; feed him on what you will, but give him not 
over much liquor.” 

Dame Glendinning again offered refreshments, but 
with a faltering voice, and an obvious desire her invita 
tion should not be accepted. The fact was, that, sup- 
posing her boys as precious in the eyes of the Englishman 
as in her own, (the most ordinary of parental errors,) she 
was half afraid that the admiration he expressed of them 


68 


THE MONASTERY. 


in his blunt manner might end in his actually carrying off 
one or other of the little darlings whom he appeared to 
covet so much. She kept hold of their hands, there- 
fore, as if her feeble strength could have been of service, 
had any violence been intended, and saw with joy she 
could not disguise, the little party of horse counter- 
march, in order to descend the glen. Her feelings did 
not escape Stawarth Bolton. “ I forgive you, dame,^ 
he said, “ for being suspicious that an English falcon was 
hovering over your Scottish rnoor-brood. But fear not 
— those who have fewest children have fewest cares ; 
nor does a wise man covet those of another household. 
Adieu, dame ; when the black-eyed rogue is able to drive 
a foray from England, teach him to spare women and 
children, even for the sake of Stawarth Bolton. 

‘‘ God be with you, gallant southern !” said Elspeth 
Glendinning, but not till he was out of hearing, spurring 
on his good horse to regain the head of his party, whose 
plumage and armour were now glancing and gradually 
disappearing in the distance, as they winded down the 
glen. 

“ Mother,” said the elder boy, ‘‘ I will not say amen 
to a prayer for a southern.” 

“ Mother,” said the younger, more reverentially, “ is 
it right to pray for a heretic 

“ The God to whom I pray only knows,” answered 
poor Elspeth ; “ but these two w'ords, southern and her- 
etic, have already cost Scotland ten thousand of her best 
and bravest, and me a husband, and you a father ; and, 
whether blessing or banning, 1 never wish to hear them 
more. — Follow me to the Place, sir,” she said to Britt- 
son, and such as we have to offer you shall be at your 
disposal.” 


the monastery. 


69 


CHAPTER III. 


They lighted down on Tweed water. 

And blew their coals sae het, 

And fired the March and Teviotdale, 

All in an evening late. 

Auld Maitland. 

The report soon spread through the patrimony of Saint 
Mary’s and its vicinity, that the mistress of Glendearg 
had received assurance from the English Captain, and 
that her cattle were not to be driven off, or her corn 
burnt. Among others who heard this report, it reach- 
ed the ears of a lady, who, once much higher in rank than 
Elspeth Glendinning, was now by the same calamity re- 
duced to even greater misfortune. 

She was the widow of a brave soldier, Walter Avenel, 
descended of a very ancient Border family, who once 
possessed immense estates in Eskdale. These had long 
since passed from them into other hands, but they still 
enjoyed an ancient Barony of considerable extent, not 
very far from the patrimony of St. Mary’s and lying upon 
the same side of the river with the narrow vale of Glen- 
dearg, at the head of which was the little tower of the 
Glendinnings. Here they had lived, bearing a respectable 
rank amongst the gentry of their province, though 
neither wealthy nor powerful. This general regard had 
been much augmented by the skill, courage, and enter- 
prize which had been displayed by VV alter Avenel, the 
last Baron. 

When Scotland began to recover from the dreadful 
shock she had sustained after the battle of Pinkie-Cleugh, 
Avenel was one of the first who, assembling a small 
force, set an example in those bloody and unsparing skir- 
mishes, which showed that a nation, though conquered 
and overrun by invaders, may yet wage against them 


GO 


THE MONASTERY. 


such a war of detail as shall in the end become fatal to 
the foreigners. In one of these, however, Walter Ave- 
nel fell, and the news which came to tlie house of his 
fathers, was followed by the distracting intelligence, that 
a party of Englishmen were coming to plunder the mansion 
and lands of his widow, in order by this act of terror to 
prevent others from following the example of llie de- 
ceased. 

The unfortunate lady had no better refuge than the 
miserable cottage of a shepherd among the hills, to/which 
she was hastily removed, scarce conscious where or for 
what purpose her terrified attendants were removing her 
and her infant daughter from her own house. Here she 
was tended wiih all the duteous service of ancient times 
by the shepherd’s wife, Tibb Tacket, who in better days 
had been her own bower-woman. For a time the lady 
was unconscious of her misery ; but when the first stun- 
ning effect of grief was so far passed away that she could 
form an estimate of her own situation, the widow of Ave- 
nel had cause to envy the lot of her husband in his dark 
and silent abode. The domestics who had guided her 
to her place of refuge, were presently obliged to dis- 
perse for their own safety, or to seek for necessary sub- 
sistence ; and the shepherd and his wife, whose poor 
cottage she shared, were soon after deprived of the 
means of affording their late mistress even that coarse 
sustenance which they had gladly shared with her. Some 
of the English forayers had discovered and driven off the 
few sheep which had escaped the first researches of 
their avarice. Two cows shared the fate of the remnant 
of their stock ; they had afforded the family almost their 
sole support, and now famine appeared to stare them in 
the face. 

“ We are broken and beggared now, out and out,” 
said old Martin the shepherd — and he wrung his hands 
in the bitterness of agony, “ the thieves, the harrying 
thieves ! not a cloot left of the hail hirsel !” 

^ “ And to see poor Grizzy and Crummie,” said his 
wife, turning back their necks to the byre, and robting 


THE MONASTERY. 


61 


while the stony-hearted villains were brogging them on 
wi’ their lances !” 

“ There were but four of them,” said Marlin, “ and 
I have seen the day forty wad not have ventured this 
length. But our strength and manhood is gane with our 
puir maister!” 

“ For the sake of the holy-rood, whisht man!” said 
the good wife, “ our leddy is half gane already, as ye 
may see by that fleightering of the ee-lid — a word mair 
and she’s dead outright.” 

“ I could almost v/ish,” said Martin, we were a’ 
gane, for what to do passes my puir wit. I care little 
for myselljOr you, Tibb, — we can make a fend — work 
or want — we can do baith, but she can do neither.” 

They canvassed their situation thus openly before the 
lady, convinced by the paleness of her look, her quiv- 
ering lip and dead-set eye, that she neither heard nor 
understood wdiat they were saying. 

“ There is a way,” said the shepherd, “ but I kenna 
if she could bring her heart to it, — there’s Simon Glen- 
dinning’s widow of the glen yonder, has had assurance 
from the southern loons, and nae soldier to steer them 
for one cause or other. Now, if the leddie could bow 
her mind to take quarters with Elspeth Glendinning till 
better days cast up, nae doubt it wad be doing an honour 
to the like of her, but” 

“An honour!” answered Tibb, “ ay, by my word, 
sic an honour as wad be pride to her kin mony a lang 
year after her banes were in the mould. Oh ! gudeman, 
to hear ye even the lady of Avenel to seeking quarters 
wi’ a Kirk-vassal’s widow !” 

“ Loath should 1 be to wish her to it,” said Martin ; 
“ but what may we do ? — to stay here is mere starva- 
tion ; and where to go, I’m sure I ken nae mair than 
ony tup I ever herded.” 

“ Speak no more of it,” said the widow of Avenel, 
suddenly joining in the conversation, “ I will go to the 
Tower. Dame Elspeth is of good folk, a widow, and 

6 VOL. I. 


'62 


THS MO.\ASTERr. 


the mother of orphans, — she will give us house-room un- 
til something be thought upon. These evil showers 
make the low bush better than no beild.” 

“ See there, see there,” said Martin, ‘‘ you see the 
leddy has twice our sense.” 

“ And natural it is,” said Tibb, “ seeing that she is 
convent-bred, and can lay silk broidery, forby white- 
seam and shell-work.” 

“ Do you not think,” said the lady to Martin, still 
clasping her child to her bosom, and making it clear from 
what motives she desired the refuge, “ that Dame Glen- 
dinning will make us welcome .^” 

“ Blithely welcome, blithely welcome, my leddy,” 
answered Martin cheerily, “ and we shall deserve a 
welcome at her hand. Men are scarce now, my leddy, 
with these wars, and gie me a thought of time to it, 1 
can do as gude a day’s darg as ever I did in my life, and 
Tibb can sort cows with ony living woman.” 

“ And muckle mair could 1 do,” said Tibb, “ were 
it in ony feasible house ; but there will be neither perlins 
to mend, nor pinners to busk up, in Elspeth Glendin- 
ning’s.” 

“ Whisht wi’ your pride, woman,” said the shepherd ; 
“ eneugh ye can do, baith outside and inside, an ye set 
your mind to it ; and hard it is if w^e tvva canna work for 
three folk’s meat, forby my dainty wee leddy there. 
Come awa, come awa, nae use in staying here langer ; 
we have five Scots miles over moss and muir, and that is 
nae easy walk for a leddy born and bred.” 

Household stuff there was little or none to remove 
or care for ; an old pony which had escaped the plun- 
derers, owing partly to its pitiful appearance, partly from 
the reluctance which it showed to be caught by strangers, 
was employed to carry the few blankets, and other trifles 
which they possessed. When Shagram came to his 
master’s well-known whistle, he was surprised to find 
the poor thing had been wounded, though slightly, by an 
arrow, which one of the forayers had shot off in anger 
after he had long chased it in vain. 


THE MO^NASTERY. 


63 


“ Ay, Shagram,” said the old man as he applied some- 
thing to the wound, “ must you rue the langbow as wecl 
as all of us ?” 

“ What corner in Scotland rues it not !” said the 
lady of Avenel. 

‘‘ Ay, ay, madam,” said Martin, God keep the kind- 
ly Scot from the cloth-yard shaft, and he will keep him- 
self from the handy stroke. But let us go our way ; 
the trash that is left I can come back for. There is nae 
ane to stir it but the good neighbours, and they ” 

“ For the love of God, gudeman,” said his wife in a 
remonstrating tone, “ baud your peace ! Think what 
ye’re saying, and we hae sae muckle wild land to go 
over before we win to the girth gate.” 

The husband nodded acquiescence ; for it was deemed 
highly imprudent to speak of the fairies either by their 
title of good neighbours or by any other, especially when 
about to pass the places which they were supposed to 
haunt.^^ 

They set forward on their pilgrimage on the last day 
of October. “ This is thy birth-day, my sweet Mary,” 
said the mother, as a sting of bitter recollection crossed 
her mind. “ Oh, who could have believed that the head, 
which, a few years since, was cradled amongst so many 
rejoicing friends, may perhaps this night seek a cover in 
vain !” 

The exiled family then set forward, — Mary Avenel, a 
lovely girl between five and six years old, riding gipsy fash- 
ion upon Shagram, betwixt two bundles of bedding ; the 
Lady of Avenel walking by the animal’s side ; Tibb 
leading the bridle, and old Martin walking a little before, 
looking anxiously around him to explore the way. 

Martin’s task as guide, after two or three miles walk- 
ing, became more difficult than he himself had expect- 
ed, or than he was willing to avow. Tt happened that 
the extensive range of pasturage, with which he was 
conversant, lay to the west, and to get into the little valley 
of Glendearg he had to proceed easterly. In the wilder 
districts of Scotland, the passage from one vale to arioth- 


64 


THE MOXASTERT. 


er, otherwise than by descending that which you leave, 
and reascending the other, is often very difficult. Heights 
and hollows, mosses and rocks intervene, and all those 
local impediments which throw a traveller out of his 
course. So that Martin, however sure of his general di- 
rection, became conscious, and at length was forced re- 
luctantly to admit, that he had missed the direct road to 
Glendearg, though he insisted they must be very near it. 
“ Jf we can but win across this wide bog,” he said, “ I 
shall warrant we are on the top of the tower.” 

But to get across the bog was a point of no small diffi- 
culty. The farther they ventured into it, though proceed- 
ing with all the caution which Martin’s experience re- 
commended, the more unsound the ground became, until, 
after they had passed some places of great peril, their 
best argument for going forward came to be, that they 
had to encounter equal danger in returning. 

The Lady of Avenel had been tenderly nurtured, but 
what will not a woman endure when her child is in dan- 
ger ^ Complaining less of the dangers of the road than 
her attendants, who had been inured to such from their 
infancy, she kept herself close by the side of the pony, 
watching its every footstep, and ready, if it should floun- 
der in the morass, to snatch her little Mary from its back. 

At length they came to a place where the guide great- 
ly hesitated, for all around him was broken lumps of 
heath, divided from each other by deep sloughs of black 
tenacious mire. After great consideration, Martin, se- 
lecting what he thought the safest path, began himself to 
lead forward Shagram, in order to aflbrd greater security 
to the child. But Shagram snorted, laid his ears back, 
stretched his two feet forward, and drew his hind feet 
under him, so as to adopt the best possible posture for 
obstinate resistance, and refused to move one yard in 
the direction indicated. Old Martin much puzzled, 
now hesitated whether to exert his absolute authority, or 
to defer to the contumacious obstinacy of Shagram, and 
was not greatly comforted by his wife’s observation, who 


THE MOXASTERY. 


65 


seeing Shagram stare with his eyes, distend his nostrils, 
and tremble with terror, hinted that “ he surely saw 
more than they could see.” 

In this dilemma, the child suddenly exclaimed — 
“ Bonny leddy signs to us to come yon gate.” They all 
looked in the direction where the child pointed, but saw 
nothing, save a wreath of rising mist, which fancy might 
form into a human figure ; but which afforded to Martin 
only the sorrowful conviction, that the danger of their 
situation was about to be increased by a heavy fog. He 
once more essayed to lead forward Shagram ; but the 
animal was inflexible in its determination not to move in 
the direction Martin recommended. “ Take your awn 
way for it then,” said Martin, “ and let us see what you 
can do for us.” 

Shagram, abandoned to the discretion of his own free 
will, set off boldly in the direction the child had 
pointed. There was nothing wonderful in this, nor in 
its bringing them safe to the other side of the dangerous 
morass ; for the instinct of these animals in traversing 
bogs is one of the most curious parts of their nature, 
and is a fact generally established. But it was remark- 
able, that the child more than once mentioned the beau- 
tiful lady and her signals, and that Shagram seemed to 
be in the secret, always m.oving in the same direction 
which she indicated. The Lady of Avenel look little 
notice at the time, her mind being probably occupied by 
the instant danger ; but her attendants exchanged ex- 
pressive looks with each other more than once. 

“ All-Hallow eve !” said Tibb, in a whisper to 
Martin. 

“ For the mercy of Our Lady, not a word of that 
now!” said Martin in reply. “ Tell your beads, woman, 
if you cannot be silent.” 

When they got once more on firm ground, Martin re- 
cognized certain land-marks, or cairns, on the tops of the 
neighbouring hills, by which he was enabled to guide his 

G* VOL. I. 


66 


THE ZvIOXASTERY. 


course, and ere long they arrived at the Tower oi 
Glende^rg. 

It was at the sight of this little fortalice that the misery 
of her lot pressed hard on the poor Lady of Avenel. 
When by any accident they had met at church, market, 
or other place of public resort, she remembered the dis- 
tant and respectful air with which the wife of the warlike 
baron was addressed by the spouse of the humble feuar. 
And now, so much was her pride humbled, that she was 
to ask to share the precarious safety of the same feuar’s 
widow, and her pittance of food, which might perhaps 
be yet more precarious. Martin probably guessed what 
was passing in her mind, for he looked at her with a 
wistful glance, as if to deprecate any change of resolu- 
tion ; and answering to his looks, rather than his words, 
she said, while the sparkle of subdued pride once more 
glanced from her eye, “ If it were for myself alone, I 
could but die — but for this infant — the last pledge of 
Avenel” 

“ True, my lady,” said Martin hastily ; and, as if to 
prevent the possibility of her retracting, he added, “ I 
will step on and see Dame Elspeth — I kend her husband 
weel, and have bought and sold with him, for as great a 
man as he was.” 

Martin’s tale was soon told, and met all acceptance 
from her companion in misfortune. The Lady of Ave- 
nel had been meek and courteous in her prosperity ; in 
adversity, therefore, she met with the greatest sympathy. 
Besides, there was a point of pride in sheltering and sup- 
porting a woman of such superior birth and rank ; and 
not to do Elspeth Glendinning injustice, she felt sympa- 
thy for a woman whose fate resembled her own in so many 
points, yet was so much more severe. Every species of 
hospitality was gladly and respectfully extended to the 
distressed travellers, and they were kindly requested to 
stay as long at Glendearg as their circumstances render 
ed necessary, or their inclination prompted. 


THE MONASTERY. 


67 


CHAPTER IV. 

Ne’er be I found by thee unawed, 

On that thrice hallow’d eve abroad, 

When goblins haunt from flood and fen, 

The steps of men. 

Collins’s Ode. to Fear, 

As the country became more settled, the Lady of Ave 
nel would have willingly returned to her husband’s man- 
sion. But that was no longer in her power. It was a reign 
of minority, when the strongest had the best right, and when 
acts of usurpation were frequent amongst those who had 
much power and little conscience. 

Julian Avenel, the younger brother of the deceased 
Walter, was a person of this description. He hesitated 
not to seize upon his brother’s house and land, so soon as 
the retreat of the English permitted him. At first he 
occupied the property in the name of his niece, but when 
the lady proposed to return with her child to the mansion 
of its fathers, he gave her to understand that Avenel being 
a male fief, descended to the brother, instead of the 
daughter, of the last possessor. The ancient philoso- 
pher declined a dispute with the emperor who command- 
ed twenty legions, and the widow of Walter Avenel was 
in no condition to maintain a contest with the leader of 
twenty moss-troopers. Julian was also a man of ser- 
vice, wilt) could back a friend in case of need, and was 
sure, therefore, to find protectors among the ruling pow- 
ers. In short, bowever'clear the little Mary’s right to 
the possessions of her father, her mother saw the neces- 
sity of giving way, at least for the time, to the usurpation 
of her uncle. 

Her patience and forbearance was so far attended with 
advantage, that Julian, for very shame’s sake, could no 
longer suffer her to be absolutely dependent on the char- 


68 


THE MONASTERY. 


ily of Elspeth Glendinning. A drove of cattle and a 
bull (which were probably missed by some English 
farmer) were driven to the pastures of Glendearg ; 
presents of raiment and household stuff were sent lib- 
erally, and sorne little money, though with a more spar- 
ing hand ; for those in the situation of Julian Avenel 
could come more easily by the goods, than the re- 
presenting medium of value, and made their payments 
chiefly in kind. 

In the meantime, the widows of Walter Avenel and 
Simon Glendinning had become habituated to each oth- 
er’s society, and were unwilling to part. The lady could 
hope no more secret and secure residence than in the 
Tower of Glendearg, and she was now in a condition to 
support her share of the mutual housekeeping. Elspeth, 
on the other hand, felt pride, as well as pleasure, in 
the society of a guest of such distinction, and' was at all 
times willing to pay much greater deference than the Lady 
of Walter Avenel could be prevailed on to accept. 

Martin and his wife diligently served the united family 
in their several vocations, and yielded obedience to both 
mistresses, though always considering themselves as the 
especial servants of the Lady of Avenel. This distinc- 
tion sometimes occasioned a slight degree of difference 
between Dame Elspeth and Tibb ; the former being 
jealous of her own consequence, and the latter apt to lay 
too much stress upon the rank and family of her mis- 
tress. But both were alike desirous to conceal such 
petty squabbles from the lady, her hostess scarce yield- 
ing to her old domestic in respect for her person. Neith- 
er did the difference exist in such a degree as to interrupt 
the general harmony of the family, for the one wdsely gave 
way as she saw the other become warm ; and Tibb, 
though she often gave the first provocation, had generally 
the sense to be the first in relinquishing the argument. 

The world which lay beyond was gradually forgotten 
by the inhabitants of this sequestered glen, and unless 
when she attended mass at the Monastery Church upon 
some high holiday, Alice of Avenel almost forgot that 


THE MONASTERT. 


69 


she once held an equal rank with the proud wives of the 
neighbouring barons and nobles who on such occasions 
crowded to the solemnity. The recollection gave her 
little pain. She loved her husband for himself, and in 
his inestimable loss all lesser subjects of regret had 
ceased to interest her. At times, indeed, she thought 
of claiming the protection of the Queen Regent (Mary 
of Guise) for her little orphan, but the fear of Julian Ave- 
nel always came between. She was sensible that he 
would have neither scruple nor difficulty in spiriting away 
the child, (if he did not proceed farther,) should he once 
consider its existence as formidable to his interest. Be- 
sides, he led a wild and unsettled life, mingling in all feuds 
and forays, wherever there was a spear to be broken ; he 
evinced no purpose of marrying, and the fate which he 
continually was braving might at length remove him from 
his usurped inheritance. Alice of Avenel, therefore, 
judged it wise to check all ambitious thoughts for the 
present, and remain quiet in the rude, but peaceable re- 
treat to which Providence had conducted her. 

It was upon an All-Hallow’s eve, when the family had re- 
sided together for the space of three years, that the domes- 
tic circle was assembled round the blazing turf-fire, in the 
old narrow hall of the Tower of Glendearg. The idea 
of the master or mistress of the mansion feeding or living 
apart from their domestics, was at this period never en- 
tertained. The highest end of the board, the most com- 
modious settle by the fire, — these were the only marks 
of distinction ; and the servants mingled, with deference 
indeed, but unreproved and with freedom, in whatever 
conversation was going forward. But the two or three 
domestics, kept merely for agricultural purposes, had 
retired to their own cottages without, and with them a 
couple of wenches, usually employed within doors, the 
daughters of one of the hinds. 

After their departure, Martin locked, first, the iron 
gate ; and, secondly, the inner door of the tower, when 
the domestic circle was thus arranged. Dame Elspeth 
sat pulling the thread from her distaff ; Tibb watched the 


THE MOXASTERY. 


• 70 

progress of scalding the whey, which hung in a large 
pot upon the croo/r, a chain terminated by a hook, which 
was suspended in the chimney to serve the pur|X)se of 
the modern crane. Martin, while busied in repairing 
some of the household articles, (for every man in those 
days was his own carpenter and smith, as well as his own 
tailor and shoemaker,) kept from time to time a watchful 
eye upon the three children. 

They were allowed however, to exercise their juvenile 
restlessness by running up and down the hall, behind the 
seats of the elder members of the family, with the privi- 
lege of occasionally making excursions into one or two 
small apartments which opened from it, and gave excel- 
lent opportunity to play at hide-and-seek. This night 
however the children seemed not disposed to avail them- 
selves of their privilege of visiting these dark regions, 
but preferred carrying on their gambols in the vicinity 
of the light. 

In the mean while, Alice of Avenel, sitting close to an 
iron candlestick, which supported a misshapen torch of 
domestic manufacture, read small detached passages from 
a thick clasped volume, which she preserved with the 
greatest care. The art of reading the lady had acquired 
by her residence in a nunnery during her youth, but she 
seldom, of late years, put it to any other use than perus- 
ing this little volume, which formed her whole library. 
The family listened to the portions which she selected, 
as to some good thing which there was a merit in hearing 
with respect, whether it was fully understood or no. To 
her daughter, Alice of Avenel had determined to impart 
their mystery more fully, but the knowledge was at that 
period attended with personal danger, and was not rashly 
to be trusted to a child. 

The noise of the romping children interrupted, from 
time to time, the voice of the lady, and drew on the noisy 
culprits the rebuke of Elspeth. 

“ Could they not go farther a-field, if they behoved 
to make such a din, and disturb the lady’s good 
words And this command was backed with the threat 


THE MOXASTERY. 


71 


of sending the whole party to bed if it was not attended 
to punctually. Acting under the injunction, the children 
first played at a greater distance from the party, and 
more quietly, and then began to stray into the adjacent 
apartments, as they became impatient of the restraint to 
which they were subjected. But, all at once, the two 
boys came open-mouthed into the hall, to tell that there 
was an armed man in the spence. 

“ It must be Christie of Clint-hill,” said Martin, rising ; 
“ what can have brought him here at this time 
“ Or how came he in said Elspetln 
“ Alas! what can he seek said the Lady of Avenel, 
to whom this man, a retainer of her husband’s brother, 
and who sometimes executed his commissions at Glen- 
dearg, was an object of secret apprehension and suspicion. 
“ Gracious heavens !” she added, rising up, “ where is 
my child All rushed to the spence. Halbert Glendin- 
ning first arming himself with a rusty sword, and the 
younger seizing upon the lady’s book. They hastened to 
the spence, and were relieved of a part of their anxiety 
by meeting Mary at the door of the apartment. She 
did not seem in the slightest degree alarmed or disturb- 
ed. They rushed into the spence, (a sort of interior 
apartment in which the family eat their victuals in the 
summer season,) but there was no one there. 

“ Where is Christie of Clint-hill said Martin. 

“ 1 do not know,” said little Mary ; “ I never saw 
him.” 

“ And what made you, ye misleard loons,” said dame 
Elspeth to her two boys, “ come yon gate into the ha’, 
roaring like bull-segs, to frighten the leddy, and her far 
frae strong The boys looked at each other in silence 
and confusion, and their mother proceeded with her lec- 
ture.’ “ Could ye find nae night for daffin but Hallow- 
e’en, and nae time but when the leddy was reading to us 
about the holy Saints ? May ne’er be in my fingers, if 
I dinna sort ye baith for it !” ’ The eldest boy bent his 
eyes on the ground, the younger began to weep, but 


72 


THE MOIS'ASTERY. 


neither spoke ; and the mother would have proceeded 
to extremities, but for the interposition of the little maiden. 

Dame Elspeth, it was my fault — I did say to them, 
that I saw a man in the spence.” 

“ And what made you do so, child,” said her moth- 
er, “ to startle us all thus ?” 

“ Because,” said Mary, lowering her voice, I could 
not help it.” 

“ Not help it, Mary ! — you occasioned all this idle 
noise, and you could not help it f How mean you by 
that, minion ?” 

“ There reafly was an armed man in the spence,” said 
Mary ; “ and because I was surprised to see him, I cried 
out to Halbert and Edward” 

“ She has told it herself,” said Halbert Glendenning ; 
“ or it had never been told by me.” 

“ Nor by me neither,” said Edward, emulously. 

“ Mistress Mary,” said Elspeth, “ you never told us 
any thing before that was not true ; tell us if this was a 
Hallowe’en cantrip, and make an end of it.” The Lady 
of Avenel loo!*3d as if she would have interfered, but 
knew not how ; and Elspeth, who was too eagerly curi- 
ous to regard any distant hint, persevered in her inqui- 
ries. “ Was it Christie of the Clinthill? I would not for 
a mark that he were about the house, and a body no ken 
where.” 

“ It was not Christie,” said Mary ; “ it was — it was a 
gentleman — a gentleman with a bright breast-plate, like 
what I hae seen langsyne, when we dwelt at Avenel” 

“ What like was he ?” continued Tibb, who now 
took share in the investigation. 

“ Black-haired, black-eyed, with a peaked black 
beard,” said the child, “ and many a fold of pearling 
round his neck, and hanging down his breast ower his 
breast-plate ; and he had a beautiful hawk, with silver 
bells, standing on his left hand, with a crimson silk hood 
upon its head” — ■ 

“ Ask her no more questions, for the love of God,’ 
said the anxious menial to Elspeth, “ but look to my 


THE MOXASTEEY. 


73 


leddy !” But the Lady of Avenel, taking Mary in her 
hand, turned hastily away, and walking into the hall, gave 
them no opportunity of remarking in what manner she 
received the child’s communication, which she thus cut 
short. What Tibb thought of it appeared from her cross- 
ing herself repeatedly, and whispering into Elspeth’s ear, 
“ Saint Mary preserve us ! — the lassie has seen her 
father !” 

When they reached the hall, they found the lady hold- 
ing her daughter on her knee, and kissing her repeatedly. 
When they entered, she again arose, as if to shun obser- 
vation, and retired to the little apartment w^here her 
child and she occupied the same bed. 

The boys were also sent to their cabin, and no one re- 
mained by the hall fire save the faithful Tibb and Dame 
Elspeth, excellent persons both, and as thorough gossips 
as ever wagged a tongue. 

It was but natural that they should instantly resume 
the subject of the supernatural appearance, for such they 
deemed it, which had this night alarmed the family. 

“ I could hae wished it had been the deil himself — 
be good to and preserve us ! — rather than Christie o’ the 
Clint-hill,” said the matron of the mansion, “ for the 
word runs rife in the country, that he is ane of the maist 
masterfu’ thieves ever lap on horse.” 

“ Hout-tout, dame Elspeth,” said Tibb, “ fear ye 
naething frae Christie ; tods keep their ain holes clean. 
You kirk-folk make sic a fasherie about men shifting a 
wee bit for their living ! Our border-lairds would ride 
with few men at their back, if a’ the light-handed lads 
were out o’ gate.” 

“ Better they rade wi’ nane than distress the country- 
side the gate they do,” said Dame Elspeth. 

“ But wha is to baud back the southron then,” said 
Tibb, “ if ye take away the lances and broad-swords ? 
I trow we auld wives couldna do that wi’ rock and wheel, 
and as little the monks wi’ bell and book.” 

7 VOL. I. 


74 


THE MOXAST-iKY. 


“ And sae weel as the lances and broad-swords Iiae 
kept them back, I trow ! — I was mair beholden to ae 
Southron, and that was Stawarth Bolton, than to a’ the 
border-riders ever wore St. Andrew’s cross — I reckon 
their skelping back and forward, and lifting honest men’s 
gear, has been a main cause of a’ the breach between us 
and England, and I am sure that cost me a kind good 
man. They spoke about the wedding of the Prince and 
our Queen, but it’s as like to be the driving of the Cum- 
berland folk’s stocking that brought them down on us 
like dragons.” Tibb would not have failed in other 
circumstances to answer what she thought reflections 
disparaging to her country folk ; but she recollected that 
Dame Elspeth was mistress of the family, curbed her own 
zealous patriotism, and hastened to change the subject. 

“ And is it not strange,” she said, “ that the heiress ot 
Avenel should hae seen her father this blessed night 

“ And ye think it was her father then?” said Elspeth 
Glendinning. 

“ What else can I think said Tibb. 

“ It may hae been something waur, in his likeness,” 
said Dame Glendinning. 

“ I ken naething about that,” said Tibb, — “ but his 
likeness it was, that I will be sworn to, just as he used to 
ride out a-hawking ; for having enemies in the country, 
he seldom laid olT the breast-plate : and for my part,” 
added Tibb, “ I dinna think a man looks like a man, 
unless he has steel on his breast and by his side too.” 

“ I have no skill of your harness on breast or side 
either,” said Dame Glendinning, “ but I ken there is 
little luck in Hallowe’en sights, for I have had ane 
mysell.” 

“ Indeed, Dame Elspeth said old Tibb, edging her 
stool closer to the huge elbow-chair occupied by her 
friend, “ I should like to hear about that.” 

“Ye maun ken then, Tibb,” said Dame Glendinning, 
“ that when I was a hempie of nineteen or twenty, it 
wasna my fault if I wasna at a’ the merry-makings time 
about.” 


THE MOIfASTERY. 


75 


“ That vvas very natural,” said Tibb ; “ but ye hae 
sobered since that, or ye vvadna baud our braw gallants 
sae lightly.” 

“ 1 have had that wad sober me or ony ane,” said the 
matron. “ Aweel, Tibb, a lass like me wasna to lack 
wooers, for I wasna sae ill-favoured that the tikes wad 
bark after me.” 

“ How should that be,” said Tibb, “ and you sic a 
weel-favoured woman to this day 

“ Fie, fie, cummer,” said the matron of Glendearg, 
hitching her seat of honour, in her turn, a little nearer 
to the cuttie-stool on which Tibb was seated ; “ weel- 
favoured is past my time of day ; but I might pass then, 
for I wasna sae tocherless but what I had a bit land at 
my breast-lace. My father was portioner of Littledearg.” 

“ Ye hae tell’d me that before,” said Tibb ; “ but 
anent the Hallowe’en.^” 

“ Aweel, aweel, I had mair joes than ane, but 1 fa- 
voured nane o’ them; and sae, at Hallowe’en, Father 
Nicholas the cellarer — he was cellarer before this father. 
Father Clement, that now is — was cracking his nuts and 
drinking his brown beer with us, and as blithe as might 
be, and they would hae me try a cantrip to ken wha 
suld wed me ; and the Monk said there was na ill in it, 
and if there was, he would assoil me for it. And wha 
but I into the barn to winnow my three weights o’ nae- 
thing — sair, sair my mind misgave me for fear of wrang- 
doing and wrang-suffering baith ; but I had aye a bauld 
spirit. I had not winnowed the last weight clean out, 
and the moon w^as shining bright upon the floor, when in 
stalked the presence of my dear Simon Glendinning, 
that is now happy. I never saw him plainer in my life 
than I did that moment ; he held up an arrow as he 
passed me, and I swarf’d awa wi’ fright. Muckle wark 
there was to bring me to mysellagain, and sair they tried 
to make me believe it was a trick of Father Nicholas 
and Simon between them, and that the arrow was to 
signify Cupid’s shaft, as the Father called it ; and mony 
a time Simon wad threep it to me after I was married— 


76 ' THE MOXASTERY. 

glide man, he liked not it should be said that he was seen 
out o’ the body ! — But mark the end o’ it, Tibb ; we 
were married, and the grey-goose wing was the death o’ 
him, after a’!” 

‘‘ As it has been of ower mony brave men,” said 
Tibb ; “ I wish there wasna sic a bird as a goose in the 
wide warld, forby the decking that we hae at the 
burnside.” 

“ But tell me, Tibb,” said Dame Glendinning, what 
does your leddy aye do reading out o’ that thick black book 
wi’ the silver clasps ? — there are ower mony gude words 
in it to come frae ony body but a priest — An it were about 
Robin Hood, or some o’ David Lindsay’s ballants, ane 
wad ken better what to say to it. I am no misdoubting 
your mistress nae way, but I wad like ill to hae a decent 
house haunted wi’ ghaists and gyre-carlines.” 

“ Ye hae nae reason to doubt my leddy, or onything 
she says or does. Dame Glendinning,” said the faithful 
Tibb, something offended ; “ and touching the bairn, 
it’s weel kend she was born on Hallowe’en was nine 
years gane, and they that are born on Hallowe’en whiles 
see mail’ than ither folk.” 

“ And that wad be the cause, then, that the bairn 
didna mak muckle din about what it saw? — if it had been 
my Halbert himself, forby Edward, who is of softer 
nature, he wad hae yammered the hail night of a con- 
stancy. But it’s like Mistress Mary has sic sights mair 
natural to her.” 

“ That may weel be,” said Tibb ; “ for on Hallow- 
e’en she was born, as I tell ye, and our auld parish priest 
wad fain hae had the night ower, and All-Hallow day 
begun. But for a’ that, the sweet bairn is just like 
ither bairns, as ye may see yoursell; and except this 
blessed night, and ance before when we were in that 
weary bog on the road here, I kenna that it saw mair than 
ither folk,” 

“ But what saw she in the bog, then,” said Dame 
Glendinning, “ forby rnoor-cocks and heather-blut- 
ters 


THE MONASTERY. 


77 


“ The wean saw sometliing like a white leddy that 
weised us the gate,” said Tibb, “ when we were like to 
hae perished in the moss-haggs — certain it was that Sha- 
gram reisted, and I ken Martin thinks he saw something.” 

“ And what might the white leddy be said EIs- 
peth ; “ hae ye ony guess o’ that 

“ It’s weel kend that, Dame Elspeth,” said Tibb ; 
“ if ye had lived under grit folk, as I hae dune, ye wadna 
be to seek in that matter.” 

“ I hae aye keepit my ain ha’ house abune my head,” 
said Elspeth, not without emphasis, “and if I havena 
lived wi’ grit folk, grit folk have lived wi’ me.” 

“ Weel, weel, dame,” said Tibb, “ your pardon’s 
prayed, there was nae offence meant. But ye maun ken 
the great ancient families canna be just served wi’ the 
ordinary saunts, (praise to them!) like Saunt Anthony, 
Saunt Cuthbert, and the like, that come and gang at 
every sinner’s bidding, but they hae a sort of saunts or 
angels, or what not, to themsells ; and as for the White 
Maiden of Avenel, she is kend ower the haill country. 
And she is aye seen to yammer and wail before ony o’ 
that family dies, as was weel kend by twenty folk before 
the death of Walter Avenel, haly be his cast !” 

“ If she can do nae mair than that,” said Elspeth, 
somewhat scornfully, “ they needna make mony vows to 
her, I trow. Can she make nae better fend for them than 
that, and has naething better to do than wait on them 

“ Mony braw services can the White Maiden do for 
them to the boot of that, and has dune in the auld histo- 
ries,” said Tibb, “ but I mind o’ naething in my day, 
except it was her that the bairn saw in the bog.” 

“ Aweel, aweel, Tibb,” said Dame Glendinning, 
rising and lighting the iron lamp, “ these are great privi- 
leges of your grand folk. But Our Lady and Saunt 
Paul are good enough saunts for me, and I’se warrant 
them never leave me in a bog that they can help me out 
o’, seeing I send four waxen candles to their chapels 
every Candlemas ; and if they are not seen to weep at 
7 * VOL. I. 


78 


THE MONASTERY. 


my death, I’se warrant them smile at my joyhil rising 
again, whilk Heaven send to all of us, Amen.” 

“ iVrnen,” answered Tibb, devoutly ; “ and now it’s 
time I should hap up the wee bit gathering turf, as the fire 
is ower low.” 

Busily she set herself to perform this duty. The relict 
of Simon Glendinning did but pause a moment to cast a 
heedful and cautious glance all around the hall, to see 
that nothing was out of its proper place ; then wishing 
Tibb good-night, she retired to repose. 

“ The deil’s in the carline,” said Tibb to herself, 
“ because she was the wife of a cock-laird, she thinks 
herself grander, 1 trow, than the bower-woman of a lady 
of that ilk!” Having given vent to her suppressed spleen 
in this little ejaculation, Tibb also betook herself to 
slumber. 


CHAPTER V. 

A priest, ye cry, a priest ! — lame shepherds they, 
How shall they gather in the straggling flock 1 
Dumb dogs which bark not — how shall they compel 
The loitering vagrants to the master’s fold ? 

Fitter to bask before the blazing fire, 

And snuff the mess neat-handed Phillis dresses, 
Than on the snow-wreath battle with the wolf. 

Reformation. 


The health of the Lady of Avenel had been gradual- 
ly decaying ever since her disaster. Jt seemed as if the 
few years which followed her husband’s death had done 
on her the work of half a century. She lost the fresh 
elasticity of form, the colour and the mien of health, and 
became wasted, wan, and feeble. She appeared to have 
no formed complaint ; yet it was evident to those who 
looked on her, that her strength waned daily. Her lips 
at length became blenched and her eye dim ; yet she 


THE MOJfASTEilY. 


79 


spoke not of any desire to see a priest, until Elspeth 
Glendinning in her zeal could not refrain from touching 
upon a point which she deemed essential to salvation. 
Alice of Avenel received her hint kindly, and thanked 
her for it. 

“ If any good priest would take the trouble of such 
a journey,” she said, “ he should be welcome ; for the 
prayers and lessons of the good must be at all times ad- 
vantageous.” 

This quiet acquiescence was not quite what Elspeth 
Glendinning wished or expected. She made up, how- 
ever, by her own enthusiasm, for the lady’s want of ea- 
gerness to avail herself of ghostly counsel, and Martin 
was despatched with such haste as Shagram would make, 
to pray one of the religious men of Saint Mary’s to come 
up to administer the last consolations to the widow of 
Walter de Avenel. 

When the Sacristan had announced to the Lord Abbot, 
that the Lady of the umquhile Walter de Avenel was in 
very weak health in the Tower of Glendearg, and desir- 
ed the assistance of a father confessor ; the lordly monk 
paused on the request. 

“ We do remember Walter de Avenel,” he said ; “ a 
good knight and a valiant ; he was dispossessed of his 
lands, and slain by the Southron — May not the lady come 
hither to the sacrament of confession F the road is dis- 
tant and painful to travel.” 

The lady is unwell, holy father,” answered the Sa- 
cristan, “ and unable to bear the journey.” 

“ True — ay — yes — then must one of our brethren go 
to her — Knowest thou if she hath aught of a jointure 
from this Walter de Avenel 

“ Very little, holy father,” said the Sacristan ; “ she 
hath resided at Glendearg since her husband’s death, well 
nigh on the charity of a poor widow, called Elspeth 
Glendinning.” 

“ Why, thou knowest all the widows in the country- 
side said the \bbot. “ Ho ! ho ! ho !” and he 
shook his portly cides at his own jest. 


80 


THE MOXASTERT. 


‘‘ Ho ! ho ! ho !” echoed the Sacristan, in the tone 
and tune in which an inferior applauds the jest of his 
superior. — Then added, with a hypocritical snuffle, and 
a sly twinkle of his eye, “ It is our duty, most holy 
father, to comfort the widow — He ! he ! he ! he !” 

This last laugh was more moderate, until the Abbot 
should put his sanction on the jest. 

“ Ho ! ho !” said the Abbot ; “ then to leave jest- 
ing, Father Philip, take thou thy riding gear, and goto 
confess this Dame Avenel.” 

“ But,” said the Sacristan 

‘‘Give me no Buts ; neither But nor If pass between 
monk and abbot. Father Philip ; the bands of discipline 
must not be relaxed — heresy gathers force like a snow- 
ball — the multitude expect confessions and preachings 
from the Benedictine, as they would from so many beg- 
garly friars — and we may not desert the vineyard, though 
the toil be grievous unto us.” 

And with so little advantage to the Holy Monastery,” 
said the Sacristan. 

“ True, Father Philip ; but wot you not that what 
preventeth harm doth good ^ This Julian de Avenel 
lives a light and evil life, and should we neglect the 
widow of his brother, he might foray our lands, and we 
never able to show who hurt us — moreover it is our duty 
to an ancient family, who, in their day, have been bene- 
factors to the Abbey. Away with thee instantly, brother ; 
ride night and day, an it be necessary, and let men see 
how diligent Abbot Boniface and his faithful children are 
in the execution of their spiritual duty — toil not deter- 
ring them, for the glen is five miles in length — fear not 
withholding them, for it is said to be haunted of spectres 
— nothing moving them from pursuit of their spiritual 
calling I to the confusion of calumnious heretics, and the 
comfort and edification of all true and faithful sons of 
the Catholic Church. I wonder what our brother Eus- 
tace will say to this 

Breathless with his own picture of the dangers and toil 
which he was to encounter, and the fame which he was 


THE 


81 


V-C.VASTEllY. 

to acquire, (both by proxy,)lhe Abbot moved slowly to 
finish his luncheon in the refectory, and the Sacristan, 
with no very good will, accompanied old Martin in his 
return to Glendearg ; the greatest impediment in the 
journey being the trouble of restraining his pampered 
mule, that she might tread in something like an equal 
pace with poor jaded Shagram. 

After remaining an hour in private with his penitent, 
the Monk returned moody and full of thought. Danre 
Elspeth, wdio had placed for the honoured guest some re- 
freshment in the hall, was struck with the embarrassment 
which appeared in his countenance. Elspeth w^atched 
him with great anxiety. She observed there was that on 
his brow which rather resembled a person come from 
hearing the confession of some enormous crime, than the 
look of a confessor who resigns a reconciled penitent, 
not to earth, but to heaven. After long hesitating, she 
could not at length refrain from hazarding a question. 
She was sure, she said, the leddy had made an easy 
shrift. Five years had they resided together, and she 
could safely say, no woman lived better. 

“ Woman,” said the Sacristan sternly, “ thou speak- 
est thou knowest not what — What avails clearing the 
outside of the platter, if the inside be foul with heresy 
“ Our dishes and trenchers are not so clean as they 
could be wished holy father,” said Elspeth, but half un- 
derstanding what he said, and beginning with her apron 
to wipe the dust from the plates, of which she supposed 
him to complain. 

“ Forbear, Dame Elspeth,” said the Monk ; your 
plates are clean as wooden trenchers and pewter flagons 
can well be ; the foulness of which I speak is that of 
pestilential heresy which is daily becoming ingrained in 
this our Holy Church of Scotland, and as a canker-worm 
in the rose-garland of the Spouse.” 

“ Holy Mother of Heaven!” said Dame Elspeth, 
crossing herself, have I keptjiouse with a heretic 
‘‘ No, Elspeth, no,” replied the Monk ; “ it were too 
strong a speech for me to make of this unhappy lady, 


82 


THE MONASTERY. 


but I would 1 could say she is free from heretical opin- 
ions. Alas, they fly about like the pestilence by noon- 
day, and infect even the first and fairest of the flock! 
For it is easy to see of this dame, that she hath been high 
in judgment as in rank.” 

“ And she can write and read, I had almost said, as 
weel as your reverence,” said Elspeth. 

“ Whom doth she write to, and what doth she read ?” 
said the Monk eagerly. 

“ Nay,” replied Elspeth, “ I cannot say I ever saw 
her write at all, but her maiden that was — she now serves 
the family — says she can write — And for reading, she 
has often read to us good things out of a thick black 
volume with silver clasps.” 

“ Let me see it,” said the Monk, hastily, on your al- 
legiance as a true vassal — on your faith as a Catholic 
Christian — instantly — instantly let me see it!” 

The good woman hesitated, alarmed at the tone in 
which the confessor took up her information ; and being 
moreover of opinion, that what so good a woman as the 
Lady of Avenel studied so devoutly, could not be of a 
tendency actually evil. But borne down by the clamour, 
exclamations, and something like threats used by Father 
Philip, she at length brought him the fatal volume. It 
was easy to do this without suspicion on the part of the 
owner, as she lay on her bed exhausted with the fatigue 
of a long conference with her confessor, and as the small 
round, or turret closet, in which was the book and her 
other trifling property, was accessible by another door. 
Of all her effects the book was the last she would have 
thought of securing, for of what use or interest could it 
be in a family who neither read themselves, nor were in 
the habit of seeing any who did ? so that Dame Elspeth 
had no difficulty in possessing herself of the volume, 
although her heart all the while accused her of an un- 
generous and an inhospitable part towards her friend and 
inmate. The double pojver of a landlord and a feudal 
superior was before her eyes ; and to say truth, the bold- 
ness wdth which she might otherwise have resisted this 


THE MONASTERY. 


83 


double authority, was, I grieve to say it, much qualified by 
the curiosity she entertained, as a daughter of Eve, to have 
some explanation respecting the mysterious volume which 
the lady cherished with so much care, yet whose con- 
tents she imparted with such caution. For never had 
Alice of Avenel read them any passage from the book in 
question until the iron door of the tower was locked, and 
all possibility of intrusion prevented. Even then she had 
shown, by the selection of particular passages, that she 
was more anxious to impress on their minds the principles 
which the volume contained, than to introduce them to 
It as a new rule of faith. 

When Elspeth, half curious, half remorseful, had plac- 
ed the book in the Monk’s hand, he exclaimed, after 
turning over the leaves, “ Now, by mine order, it is as I 
suspected ! — My mule, my mule ! — 1 will abide no long- 
er here — well hast thou done, dame, in placing in my 
hands this perilous volume.” 

‘‘ Is it then witchcraft or devil’s work said Dame 
Elspeth, in great agitation. 

“ Nay, God forbid,” said the Monk, signing himself 
with the cross, “ it is the Holy Scripture. But it is ren- 
dered into the vulgar tongue, and therefore, by the order 
of the Holy Catholic Church, unfit to he in the hands of 
any lay person.” 

“ And yet is the Holy Scripture communicated for our 
common salvation,” said Elspeth. “ Good father, you 
must instruct mine ignorance better ; but lack of wit 
cannot be a deadly sin, and truly, to my poor thinking, 
T should be glad to read the Holy Scripture.” 

“ I dare say thou wouldst,” said the Monk ; “ and 
even thus did our mother Eve seek to have knowledge 
of good and evil, and thus Sin came into the world, and 
Death by Sin.” 

‘‘ I am sure, and that’s true!” said Elspeth. “ O, if 
she had dealt by the counsel of Saint Peter and Saint 
Paul !” 

“ If she had reverenced the command of Heaven,” 
said the Monk, ‘‘ which, as it gave her birth, life and 


84 


THE MOXASTEEY. 


happiness, fixed upon the grant such conditions as best 
corresponded with its holy pleasure. I tell thee, Elspeth, 
the Word slayeth — that is, the text alone, read with un- 
skilled eye and unhallowed lips, is like those strong 
medicines which sick men take by the advice of the 
learned. Such patients recover and thrive ; while those 
dealing in them at their own hand, shall perish by their 
own deed.” 

“ Nae doubt, nae doubt,” said the poor woman, “ your 
reverence knows best.” 

“ Not I,” said Father Philip, in a tone as deferential 
as he thought could possibly become the Sacristan of 
Saint Mary’s — “ Not I, but the Holy Father of Christen^ 
dom, and our own holy father the Lord Abbot, know 
best. I, the poor Sacristan of St. Mary’s, can but re- 
peat what I hear from others my superiors. Yet of this, 
good woman, be assured, — the Word — the mere Word 
slayeth. But the church hath her ministers to gloze and 
to expound the same unto her faithful congregation ; 
and this I say, not so much, my beloved brethren — I 
mean, my beloved sister, (for the Sacristan bad got into 
the end of one of his old sermons) — “ This I speak not 
so much of the rectors, curates, and secular clergy, so 
called because they live after the fashion of the scculum 
or age, unbound by those ties which sequestrate us from 
the world ; neither do I speak this of the mendicant 
friars, whether black or grey, whether crossed or un- 
crossed ; but of the Monks, and especially of the Monks 
Benedictine, reformed on the rule of Saint Bernard of 
Clairvaux, thence called Cistercian, of which Monks, 
Christian brethren — sister,! would say — great is the hap- 
piness and glory of the country in possessing the holy 
ministers of Saint Mary’s, whereof 1, though an unworthy 
brother, may say it hath produced more saints, more 
bishops, more popes — may our patrons make us thank- 
ful ! — than any holy foundation in Scotland. Wherefore 
— But I see Martin hath my mule in readiness, and I 
will but salute you with the kiss of sisterhood, which 
maketh not ashamed, and so betake me to my toilsome 


THE MOXASTERY. 


85 


return, for the glen is of bad reputation for the evil 
spirits which liaunt it. Moreover, 1 may arrive too late 
at the bridge, whereby I may be obliged to take the 
river, which I observed to be somewhat waxen.” 

Accordingly he took his leave of Dame Elspeth, who 
was confounded by the rapidity of his utterance, and the 
doctrine he gave forth, and by no means easy on the subject 
of the book, which her conscience told her she should not 
have communicated to any one, without the knowledge 
of its owner. 

Notwithstanding the haste which the Monk as well as 
his mule made to return to better quarters than they 
had left at the head of Glendearg ; nowithstanding the 
eager desire Father Philip had to be the very first who 
should acquaint the Abbot that a copy of the book they 
most dreaded had been found within the Halidome, or 
patrimony of the Abbey ; notwithstanding, moreover, 
certain feelings which induced him to hurry as fast as 
possible through the gloomy and evil-reputed glen, still 
the difficulties of the road, and the rider’s want of habi- 
tude of quick motion were such, that twilight came upon 
him ere he had nearly cleared the narrow valley. 

It was indeed a gloomy ride. The two sides of the 
valley were so near, that at every double of the river 
the shadows from the western sky fell upon and totally 
obscured, the eastern bank ; the thickets of copse- wood 
seemed to wave with a portentous agitation of boughs 
and leaves, and the very crags and scaurs seemed higher 
and grimmer than they had appeared to the Monk while 
he was travelling in day-light, and in company. Father 
Philip was heartily rejoiced, when, emerging from the 
narrow glen, he gained the open valley of the Tweed, 
which held on its majestic course from current to pool, 
and from pool stretched away to other currents, with 
a dignity peculiar to itself amongst the Scottish rivers ; 
for whatever may have been the drought of the season, 
the Tweed usually fills up the space between its banks, 
seldom leaving those extensive sheets of shingle which 

8 VOL T. 


86 


Tin: MOXASTEUY. 


deform the margins of many of the celebrated Scottish 
streams. 

The Monk, insensible to beauties which the age had 
not regarded as deserving of notice, was nevertheless, 
like a prudent general, pleased to find himself out of the 
narrow glen in which the Enemy might have stolen upon 
him unperceived. He drew up his bridle, reduced his 
mule to her natural and luxurious amble, instead of the 
agitating and broken trot at which, to his no small incon- 
venience, she had hitherto proceeded, and, wiping his 
brow, gazed forth at leisure on the broad moon, which, 
now mingling with the lights of evening, was rising over 
field and forest, village and fortalice, and, above all, over 
the stately Monastery, seen far and dim amid the yellow 

light. 

The worst part of this magnificent view, in the Monk’s 
apprehension, was that the Monastery stood on the op- 
posite side of the river, and that of the many fine bridges 
which have since been built across that classical stream, 
not one then existed. There was, however, in recom- 
pense, a bridge then standing which has since disap- 
peared, although its ruins may be still traced by the 
curious. 

It was of a very peculiar form. Two strong abutments 
were built on either side of the river, at a part where the 
stream was peculiarly contracted. Upon a rock in the 
centre of the current was built a solid piece of masonry, 
constructed like the pier of a bridge, and presenting, like 
a pier, an angle to the current of the stream. The 
masonry continued solid until the pier rose to a level with 
the two abutments upon either side, and from thence 
the building rose in the form of a tower. The lower 
story of this tower consisted only of an arch-way or 
passage ' through the building, over either entrance to 
which hung a draw-bridge with counterpoises, either of 
which, when dropped, connected the arch-way with the 
opposite abutment, where the further end of the draw- 
bridge rested. When both bridges were thus lowered, 
the passage over the river was complete. 


THE MONASTERY. 


87 


The bridge-keeper, who was the dependant of a neigh- 
bouring baron, resided with his lamily in the second and 
third stories of the tower, which, when both draw-bridge^ 
were raised, formed an insulated fortalice in the midst 
of the river. He was entitled to a small toll or custom 
for the passage, concerning the amount of which disputes 
sometimes arose between him and the passengers. It is 
needless to say, that the bridge-ward had usually the 
better in these questions, since he could at pleasure detain 
the traveller on the opposite side ; or, suffering him to 
pass half way, might keep him prisoner in his tower 
till they were agreed on the rate of pontage. 

But it was most frequently with the Monks of Saint 
Mary’s that the warder had to dispute his perquisites. 
These holy men insisted for, and at length obtained a 
right of gratuitous passage to themselves, greatly to the 
discontent of the bridge-keeper. But when they de- 
manded the same immunity for the numerous pilgrims 
who visited the shrine, the bridge-keeper waxed restive, 
and was supported by his lord in his resistance. The 
controversy grew animated on both sides; the Abbot 
menaced excommunication, and the keeper of the bridge, 
though unable to retaliate in kind, yet made each indi- 
vidual monk who had to cross and re-cross the river, 
endure a sort of purgatory, ere he would accommodate 
them with a passage. This w’^as a great inconvenience, 
and would have proved a more serious one, but that the 
river was fordable for man and horse in ordinary weather. 

It was a fine moonlight night, as we have already said, 
when Father Philip approached this bridge, the singular 
construction of which gives a curious idea of the inse- 
curity of the times. The river was not in flood, but it 
was above its ordinary level — a heavy water, as it is call- 
ed in that country, through which the Monk had no par- 
ticular inclination to ride, if he could manage the matter 
better. 

“ Peter, my good friend,” cried the Sacristan, raising 
his voice ; “ my very excellent friend, Peter, be so kind 


88 


THE MONASTEHY. 


as to lower the draw-bridge. Peter, I say, dost thou not 
henr ? — it is thy gossip. Father Philip, who calls thee.” 

Peter heard him perfectly well, and saw him into the 
bargain ; but as he had considered the Sacristan as pe- 
culiarly his enemy in his dispute with the convent, he 
went quietly to bed, after reconnoitring the Monk through 
his loop-hole, observing to his wife, that “ riding the 
water in a moonlight night would do the Sacristan no 
harm, and would teach him the value of a brigg the 
neist time, on whilk a man might pass high and dry, 
winter and summer, flood and ebb.” 

After exhausting his voice in entreaties and threats, 
which were equally unattended to by Peter of the Brigg, 
as he was called, Father Philip at length moved down 
the river to take the ordinary ford at the head of the 
next stream. Cursing the rustic obstinacy of Peter, he 
began, nevertheless, to persuade himself that the passage 
of the river by the ford was not only safe, but pleasant. 
The banks and scattered trees were so beautifully reflect- 
ed from the bosom of the dark stream, the whole cool 
and delicious picture formed so pleasing a contrast to his 
late agitation, to the warmth occasioned by his vain en- 
deavours to move the relentless- porter of the bridge, 
that the result was rather agreeable than otherwise. 

As Father Philip came close to the water’s edge, at 
the spot where he was to enter it, there sat a female un- 
der a large broken scathed oak-tree, or rather under the 
remains of such a tree, weeping, wringing her hands, and 
looking earnestly on the current of the river. The Monk 
was struck with astonishment to see a female there at 
that time of night. But he was in all honest service, — 
and if a step farther, I put it upon his own conscience, — 
a devoted squire of dames. After observing the maiden 
for a moment, although she seemed to take no notice of 
his presence, he was moved by her distress and willing 
to offer his assistance. “ Damsel,” said he, “ thou 
seemest in no ordinary distress ; peradventure, like my- 
self, thou hast been refused passage at the bridge by the 


MOXASTERY. 


89 


Ts::: 

churlish keeper, and thy crossing may concern thee either 
for performance of a vow, or some other weighty charge.” 

The maiden uttered some inarticulate sounds, looked 
at the river, and then in the face of the Sacristan. It 
struck Father Philip at that instant, that a Highland Chief 
of distinction had been for some time expected to pay 
his vows at the shrine of Saint Mary’s ; and that possi- 
bly this fair maiden might be one of his family, travelling 
alone for accomplishment of a vow, or left behind by 
some accident, to whom, therefore, it would be* but right 
and prudent to use every civility in his power, espe- 
cially as she seemed unacquainted with the Lowland 
tongue. Such at least was the only motive the Sacristan 
was ever known to assign for his courtesy j if there was 
any other, T once more refer it to his own conscience. 

To express himself by signs, the common language 
of all nations, the cautious Sacristan first pointed to the 
river, then to his mule’s crupper, and then made, as 
gracefully as he could, a sign to induce the fair solitary to 
mount behind him. She seemed to understand his mean- 
ing, for she rose up as if to accept his offer, and while the 
good Monk, who, as we have hinted, was no great cava- 
lier, laboured, with the pressure of the right leg and the 
use of the left rein, to place his mule with her side to 
the bank in such a position that the lady might mount with 
ease, she rose from the ground with rather portentous 
activity, and at one bound sat behind the Monk upon 
the animal, much the firmer rider of the two. The mule 
by no means seemed to approve of this double burden ; 
she bounded, bolted, and would soon have thrown Father 
Philip over her head, had not the maiden with a firm 
hand detained him in the saddle. 

At length the restive brute changed her humour ; and, 
from refusing to budge off the spot, suddenly stretched 
her nose homeward, and dashed into the ford as fast as 
she could scamper. A new terror now invaded the 
Monk’s mind — the ford seemed unusually deep, the 
water eddied off in strong riople from the counter of the 

8* VOL. I. 


90 


THE MONASTERY. 


mule, and began to rise upon her side. Philip lost his 
presence of mind, which was at no time his most ready 
attribute, the mule yielded to the weight of the current, 
and as the rider was not attentive to keep her head turn- 
ed up the river, she drifted downward, lost the ford and 
her footing at once, and began to swim with her head 
down the stream. And what was sufficiently strange, at 
the same moment, notwithstanding the extreme peril, 
the damsel began to sing, thereby increasing, if any 
thing could increase, the bodily fear of the worthy Sa- 
cristan. 

I. 

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 

Both current and ripple are dancing in light. 

We have roused the night raven, I heard him croak, 

As we plashed along beneath the oak 

That flings its broad branches so far and so wide. 

Their shadows are dancing in midst of the tide. 

“ Who wakens my nestlings,'' the raven he said. 

My beak shall ere morn in his blood be red. 

For a blue swollen corpse is a dainty meal. 

And I'll have my share with the pike and the eel." 

II. 

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright. 

There's a golden gleam on the distant height ; 

There’s a silver shower on the alders dank. 

And the drooping willows that wave on the bank. 

I sec the Abbey, both turret and tower, 

It is all astir for the vesper hour ; 

The monks-for the chapel are leaving each cell. 

But where’s Father Philip, should toll the bell 7 

III. 

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 

Downward we drift through shadow and light, 

Under yon rock the eddies sleep. 

Calm and silent, dark and deep. 

The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless pool. 

He has lighted his candle of death and of dool : 

Look, Father, look, and you’ll laugh to see 
ilow he gapes and glares with his eyes on thee ! 

IV. 

Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye to-night 7 
A'man of mean or a man of might 7 


THE MOXASTEHY. 


91 


Is it layman or priest that must float In your cove, 

Or lover who crosses to visit his love ? 

Hark ! heard ye the Kelpy reply as we passM, — 

“ God’s blessing on the warder, he lock’d the bridge fast ! 

All that come to my cove are sunk, 

Priest or layman, lover or monk.” 

How long the damsel might have continued to sing, or 
t\’here the terrified Monk’s journey might have ended, 
is uncertain. As she sung the last stanza, they arrived ' 
at, or rather in, a broad tranquil sheet of water, caused 
by a strong wear or dam-head, running across the river, 
which dashed in a broad cataract over the barrier. The 
mule, whether from choice, or influenced by the suction 
of the current, made towards the cut intended to supply 
the convent mills, and entered it half swimming, half 
wading, and pitching the unlucky Monk to and fro in the 
saddle at a fearful rate. 

As his person flew hither and thither, his garment 
became loose, and in an effort to retain it, his hand light- 
ed on the volume of the Lady of Avenel which was in 
his bosom. No sooner had he grasped it, than his com- 
panion pitched him out of the saddle into the stream, 
where still keeping her hand on his collar, she gave him 
two or three good souses in the watery fluid, as to 
ensure that every part of him had its share of wetting, 
and then quitted her hold when he was so near the side 
that by a slight effort (of a great one he was incapable,) 
he might scramble on shore. This accordingly he 
accomplished, and turning his eyes to see what had 
become of his extraordinary companion, she was no 
where to be seen; but still he heard as if from the surface 
of the river, and mixing with the noise of the water 
breaking over the dam-head, a fragment of her wild song, 
which seemed to run thus : — 

Landed— landed ! the black book hath won, 

Else had you seen Berwick with morning sun ! 

^ Sain ye, and save ye, and blythe mot ye be. 

For seldom they land that go swimming vvith me. 


02 


THE jIOXASTEET. 


The ecstacy of the Monk’s terror could be endured no 
longer 5 bis bead grew dizzy, and, after staggering a few 
steps onward and running himself against a wall, he sunk 
down in a state of insensibility. 


CHAPTER VI. 


Now let us sit in conclave. That these weeds 
Be rooted from the vineyard of the church, 

That these foul tares be severed from the wheat, 

We are, I trust, agreed. — Yet how to do this, 

Nor hurt the wholesome crop and tender vine-plants. 

Craves good advisement. 

The Reformation. 

The vesper service in the Monastery Church of St. 
Mary’s was now over. The Abbot had disrobed him- 
self of his magnificent vestures of ceremony, and resum- 
ed his ordinary habit, which was a black gown worn over 
a white cassock, with a narrow scapulary, a decent and 
venerable dress, which was well calculated to set off to 
advantage the portly mien of Abbot Boniface. 

In quiet times no one could have filled the state of a 
mitred Abbot, for such was his dignity, more respectably 
than this worthy prelate. He had, no doubt, many of 
those habits of self-indulgence which men are apt to 
acquire who live for themselves alone. He was vain, 
moreover ; and when boldly confronted, had sometimes 
shown symptoms of timidity, not very consistent with the 
high claims which ne preferred as an eminent member 
of the church, or with the punctual deference which he 
exacted from his religious brethren, and all who were 
placed under his command. But he was hospitable, 
charitable, and by no means of himself disposed to pro- 
ceed with severity against any one. In short, lie would 
in other times have slumbered out his term of prefer- 


THE MONASTERY. 


93 


nient with as much credit as any other “ purple Abbot,” 
who lived easily, but at the same time decorously — slept 
soundly, and did not disquiet himself with dreams. 

But the wide alarm spread through the whole Church 
of Rome by the progress of the reformed doctrines, 
sorely disturbed the repose of Abbot Boniface, and 
opened to him a wide field of duties and cares which 
he had never so much as dreamed of. There were 
opinions to be combated and refuted — practices to be 
inquired into — heretics to be detected and punished — 
the fallen off to be reclaimed — the wavering to be con- 
firmed — scandal to be removed from the clergy, and the 
vigour of discipline to be re-established. Post upon 
post arrived at the Monastery of St. Mary’s — horses 
reeking, and riders exhausted — this from the Privy Coun- 
cil, that from the Primate of Scotland, and this other 
again from the Queen Mother, exhorting, approving, con- 
demning, requesting advice upon this subject, and re- 
quiring information upon that. 

These missives Abbot Boniface received with an im- 
portant air of helplessness, or a helpless air of importance, 
whichever the reader may please to term it, evincing at 
once gratified vanity, and profound trouble of mind. 

The sharp-witted Primate of Saint Andrew’s had 
foreseen the deficiencies of the Abbot of St. Mary’s, and 
endeavoured to provide for them by getting admitted into 
his Monastery as Sub-Prior, a brother Cistercian, a man 
of parts and knowledge, devoted to the service of the 
Catholic Church, and very capable not only to advise 
the Abbot on occasions of difficulty, but to make him 
sensible of his duty in case he should, from good-nature 
or timidity, be disposed to shrink from it. 

Father Eustace played the same part in the Monastery 
as the old general, who, in foreign armies, is placed at 
the elbow of the Prince of the Blood, who nominally 
commands in chief, on condition of attempting nothing 
without the advice of his dry-nurse ; and he shared the 
fate of all such dry-nurses, being heartily disliked as 
well as feared by his principal. Still however the Pri- 


94 


THE MO.VASTERY. 


mate’s intention was fully answered. Father Eusta?e 
became the constant theme and often the bugbear of 
the worthy Abbot, who hardly dared to turn himself in 
his bed without considering what Father Eustace would 
think of it. In every case of difficulty, Father Eustace 
was summoned, and his opinion asked ; and no sooner 
was the embarrassment removed than the Abbot’s next 
thought was how to get rid of his adviser. In every let- 
ter which he wrote to those in power he re- 
commended Father Eustace to some high church prefer- 
ment, a bishopric or an abbey ; and as they dropped one 
after another, and were otherwise conferred, he began to 
think, as he confessed to the Sacristan in the bitterness 
of his spirit, that the Monastery of St. Mary’s had got a 
life-rent lease of their Sub-Prior. 

Yet more indignant he would have been, had he sus- 
pected that Father Eustace’s ambition was fixed upon 
his own mitre, which, from some attacks of an apoplec- 
tic nature, deemed by the Abbot’s friends to be more seri- 
ous than by himself, it was supposed might be shortly 
vacant. But the confidence which', like other dignitaries, 
he reposed in his own health, prevented Abbot Boniface 
from imagining that it held any concatenation with the 
motions of Father Eustace. 

The necessity under which he found himself of consult- 
ing with his grand adviser, in cases of real difficulty, ren- 
dered the worthy Abbot particularly desirous of doing 
without him on all ordinary cases of administration, though 
not without considering what Father Eustace would 
have said of the matter. He scorned, therefore, to give 
a hint to the Sub-Prior of the bold stroke by which he 
had despatched Brother Philip to Glendearg ; but when 
the vespers came without his re-appearance he became 
a little uneasy, the more as other matters weighed upon 
his mind. The feud with the warder or keeper of the 
bridge threatened to be attended with bad consequences, 
as the man’s quarrel was taken up by the martial Baron 
under whom he served ; and pressing letters of an un- 
pleasant tendency had just arrived from the Primate. 


THE MONASTERY. 


95 


Like a gouty man, who catches hold of his crutch while 
he curses the intirmity that reduces him to use it, the 
Abbot, however reluctant, found himself obliged to re- 
quire Eustace’s presence, after the service was over, in 
his house, or rather palace, which was attached to, and 
made part of, the Monastery. 

Abbot Boniface was seated in his high-backed chair, 
the grotesque carved back of which terminated in a^itre, 
before a fire where two or three large logs were reduced 
to one red glowing mass of charcoal. At his elbow, on 
an oaken stand, stood the remains of a roasted capon, 
on which his reverence had made his evening meal, flank- 
ed by a goodly stoup of Bourdeaux of excellent flavour. 
He was gazing indolently on the fire, partly engaged in 
meditation on his past and present fortunes, partly oc- 
cupied by endeavouring to trace towers and steeples in 
the red embers. 

‘‘ Yes,” thought the Abbot to himself, in that red 
perspective I could fancy to myself the peaceful towers 
of Dundrennan, where I passed my life ere I w'as called 
to pomp and to trouble. A quiet brotherhood we were, 
regular in our domestic duties; and when the frailties of 
humanity prevailed over us, we confessed, and were ab- 
solved by each other, and the most formidable part of 
the penance was the jest of the convent on the culprit. 
I can almost fancy that I see the cloister garden, and the 
pear-trees which I grafted with my own hands. And 
for what have I changed all this, but to be overwhelmed 
with business which concerns me not, to be called My 
Lord Abbot, and to be tutored by Father Eustace ? I 
would these towers were the Abbey of Aberbrothwick, 
and Father Eustace the Abbot, — or I would he were in 
the fire on any terms, so I were rid of him ! The Pri- 
mate says our Holy Father the Pope hath an adviser — 
I am sure he could not live a week with such a one 
as mine. Then there is no learning what Father Eus- 
tace thinks till you confess your own difficulties — No hint 
will bring forth his opinion — he is like a miser, who will 
not unbuckle his purse to bestow a farthing, until the 


96 


THE MONASTERY. 


wretch who needs it has owned his excess of poverty, 
and wrung out the boon by importunity. And thus I am 
dishonoured in the eyes of my religious brethren, who 
beliold me treated like a child which hath no sense of its 
own — I will bear it no longer ! — Brother Bennet, — (a lay 
brother answered to his call) — tell Father Eustace that 
I need not his presence.” 

“ I came to say to your reverence, that the holy father 
is entering even now, from the cloisters.” 

“ Be it so,” said the Abbot, “ he is welcome — remove 
these things — or rather, place a trencher, the holy father 
may be a little hungry — yet, no — remove them, for there 
is no good fellowship in him — Let the stoup of wine re- 
main, however, and place another cup.” 

The Jay brother obeyed these contradictory commands 
in the way he judged most seemly — he removed the car- 
cass of the half-sacked capon, and placed two goblets 
beside the stoup of Bourdeaux. At the same instant 
entered Father Eustace. 

He was a thin, sharp-faced, slight-made, little man, 
whose keen grey eyes seemed almost to look through 
the person to whom he addressed himself. His body 
was emaciated not only with the fasts which he observed 
with rigid punctuality, but also by the active and unwea- 
ried exercise of his sharp and piercing intellect; — 

A fiery soul, which, working out its way, 

Fretted the puny body to decay, 

And o’er-informed the tenement of clay. 

He turned with conventual reverence to the Lord Ab- 
bot ; and as they stood together, it was scarce possible to 
see a more complete difference of form and expression. 
The good-natured rosy face and laughing eye of the Ab- 
bot, which even his present anxiety could not greatly 
ruffle, was a w^onderful contrast to the thin pallid cheek 
and quick penetrating glance of the Monk, in which an 
eager and keen spirit glanced through eyes to which it 
seemed to give supernatural lustre. 


THE MONASTERY. 


97 


The Abbot opened the conversation by motioning to 
the Monk to take a stool, and inviting him to a cup of wine. 
The courtesy was declined with respect yet not without 
a remark, that the vesper-service was past. 

“For the stomach’s sake, brother,” said the Abbot 
colouring a little — “ you know the text.” 

“ It is a dangerous one,” answered the Monk, “ to 
handle alone, or at late hours. Cut off from human so- 
ciety, the juice of the grape becomes a perilous com- 
panion of solitude, and therefore I ever shun it.” 

Abbot Boniface had poured himself out a goblet which 
might hold about half an English pint ; but, either struck 
with the truth of the observation, or ashamed to act in 
direct opposition to it, he suffered it to remain untasted 
before him, and immediately changed the subject. 

“The Primate hath written to us,” said he, “to make 
strict search within our bounds after the heretical per- 
sons denounced in this list, who have withdrawn them- 
selves from the justice which their opinions deserve. It 
is deemed probable that they will attempt to retire to 
England by our Borders, and the Primate requireth me 
to watch with vigilance, and what not.” 

“ Assuredly,” said the Monk, “ the magistrate should 
not bear the sword in vain — those be they that turn the 
world upside down — and doubtless your reverend wis- 
dom will with due diligence second the exertions of the 
Right Reverend Father in God, being in the perempto- 
ry defence of the Holy Church.” 

“ Ay, but how is this to be done ?” answered the 
Abbot ; “ Saint Mary aid us ! The Primate writes to 
me as if I were a temporal Baron — a man under com- 
mand, having soldiers under him ! He says, send forth 
— scour the country — guard the passes — Truly these 
men do not travel as those who would give their lives for 
nothing — the last who went south passed the dry-march 
at the Ridingburn with an escort of thirty spears, as our 
reverend brother the Abbot of Kelso did write unto us. 
How are cowls and scapularies to stop the way .^” 

9 VOL. I. 


9S 


THE MOXASTERY. 


“ Your Bailiff is accounted a good man-at-arms, holy 
father,” said Eustace 5 “ your vassals are obliged to rise 
for the defence of the Holy Kirk — it is the tenure on 
which they hold their lands — If they will not come forth 
for the Church which gives them bread, let their posses- 
sions be given to others.” 

“ We shall not be wanting,” said the Abbot, collecting 
himself with importance, “ to do whatever may advan- 
tage Holy Kirk — thyself shall hear the charge to our 
Bailiff and our officials — but here again is our controver- 
sy with the warden of the bridge and the Baron of 
Meigallot — Saint Mary ! vexations do so multiply upon 
the House, and upon the generation, that a man wots not 
where to turn to ! Thou didst say. Father Eustace, 
thou wouldst look into our evidents touching this free 
passage for the pilgrims?” 

“ 1 have looked into the Chartulary of the House, holy 
father,” said Eustace, ‘‘ and therein I find a written 
and formal grant of all duties and customs payable at 
the draw-bridge of Brigton, not only by ecclesiastics of 
this foundation, but by every pilgrim truly designed to ac- 
complish his vows at this House, to the Abbot Ailford, 
and the Monks of the House of Saint Mary in Kenna- 
quhair, from that time and forever. The deed is dated 
on Saint Bridget’s Even, in the year of Redemption, 
1137, and bears the sign and seal of the granter, Charles 
of Meigallot, great-great-grandfather of this Baron, and 
purports to be granted for the safety of his own soul, and 
for the weal of the souls of his father and mother, and 
of all his predecessors and successors, being Barons of 
Meigallot.” 

“But he alleges,” said the Abbot, “that the bridge 
wards have been in possession of these dues, and have 
rendered them available for more than fifty years — and 
the Baron threatens violence — meanwhile, the journey of 
the pilgrims is interrupted, to the prejudice of their own 
souls, and the diminution of the revenues of Saint Mary. 
The Sacristan advised us to put on a boat ; but the 
warden, whom thou knowest to be a godless man, has 


THE MONASTERY. 


99 


sworn the devil tear him, but that if they put on a boat 
on the laird’s stream, he will rive her board from board 
— and then some say we should compound the claim 
for a small sum in silver.” Here the Abbot paused a 
moment for a reply, but receiving none, he added, “ But 
what thinkest thou, Father Eustace ? why art thou 
silent 

“ Because I am surprised at the question which the 
Lord Abbot of Saint Mary’s asks at the youngest of his 
brethren.” 

“ Youngest in time of your abode with us. Brother 
Eustace,” said the Abbot, “ not youngest in years, or I 
think in experience — Sub-Prior also of this convent.” 

“ I am astonished,” continued Eustace, “ that the 
Abbot of this venerable house should ask of any one, 
whether he can alienate the patrimony of our holy and 
divine patroness, or give up to an unconscientious, and 
perhaps a heretic baron, the rights conferred on this 
church by his devout progenitor. Popes and councils 
alike prohibit it — the honour of the living, and the weal 
of departed souls, alike forbid it — it may not be. To 
force, if he dare use it, we must surrender ; but never 
by our consent should we see the goods of the church 
plundered, with as little scruple as he w'ould drive off a 
herd of English beeves. Rouse yourself, reverend fath- 
er, and doubt nothing but that the good cause shall pre- 
vail. Whet the spiritual sword, and direct it against the 
wicked who would usurp our holy rights. Whet the 
temporal sword if it be necessary, and stir up the cour- 
age and zeal of your loyal vassals.” 

The Abbot sighed deeply. “ All this,” he said, “ is 

soon spoken by him who hath to act it not ; but” He 

was interrupted by the entrance of Bennet rather hastily. 
“ The mule on which the Sacristan had set out in the 
morning had returned,” he said, “to the convent stable 
all over wet, and with the saddle turned round beneath 
her belly.” 

“ Sancta Maria !” said the Abbot, “ our dear brother 
hath perished by the way!” 


100 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ It may not be,” said Eustace hastily — let tlie 
bell be tolled — cause the brethren to get torches — alarm 
the village — hurry down to the river — I myself will be 
the foremost.” 

The real Abbot stood astonished and agape, when at 
once he beheld his office filled, and saw all which he 
ought to have ordered, going forward at the dictates of 
the youngest Monk in the convent. But ere the orders 
of Eustace, which nobody dreamed of disputing, were 
carried into execution, the necessity was prevented by 
the sudden apparition of the Sacristan, wdiose supposed 
danger excited all the alarm. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Eraze the written troubles of the brain. 

Cleanse the foul bosom of the perilous stuff 
That weighs upon the heart. 

Macbeth. 

What betwixt cold and fright the afflicted Sacristan 
stood before his Superior, propped on the friendly arm 
of the convent miller, drenched with water, and scarce 
able to utter a syllable. 

After various attempts to speak, the first words he 
uttered were, 

“ Swim we merrily — the moon shines bright.’’ 

“ Swim we merrily !” retorted the Abbot indignant- 
ly, “ a merry night have ye chosen for swimming, and a 
becoming salutation to your Superior !” 

“ Our brother is bewildered,” said Eustace ; “ speak, 
Father Philip, how is it wdth you 


Good luck to your fishing,’ 


THE MOXASTERY. 


101 


continued the Sacristan, making-a most dolorous attempt 
at the tune of his strange companion. 

“ Good luck to your fishing !” repeated the Abbot, 
still more surprised and displeased ; “ by my halidome 
he is drunken with wine, and comes to our presence 
with his jolly catches in his throat ! If bread and water 
can cure this folly” 

“ With your pardon, venerable father,” said the Sub- 
Prior, “ of water our brother has had enough; and me- 
diinks the confusion of his eye is rather that of terror, 
than of aught unbecoming his profession. Where did 
you find him. Hob Miller 

“ An it please your reverence, I did but go to shut the 
sluice of the mill — and as I was going to shut the 
sluice, I heard something groan near to me; but judg- 
ing it was one of Giles Fletcher’s hogs — for so please 
you, he never shuts his gate — I caught up my lever, and 
was about — Saint Mary forgive me ! — to strike where I 
heard the sound, when, as the saints would have it, I 
heard the second groan just like that of a living man. 
So I called up my knaves, and found the Father Sacristan 
lying wet and senseless under the wall of our kiln. So 
soon as we brought him to himself a bit, he prayed to be 
brought to your reverence, but 1 doubt me, his wits have 
gone a bell-wavering by the road. It was but now that 
he spoke in somewhat better form.” 

“ Well !” said Brother Eustace, “ thou hast done 
well. Hob Miller ; only begone now, and remember a 
second time, to pause, ere you strike in the dark.” 

“ Please your reverence, it shall be a lesson to me,” 
said the Miller, “ not to mistake a holy man for a hog 
again, so long as I live.” And making a bow with pro- 
found humility, the Miller withdrew. 

“ And now that this churl is gone, Father Philip,” 
said Eustace, “ wilt thou tell our venerable Superior what 
ails thee art thou vino gravatusj man ? if so, we will 
have thee to thy cell 
9* VOL. I. 


102 


THE MONASTERY. 


Water ! water ! not wine,” muttered the exhaust- 
ed Sacristan. 

“ Nay,” said the Monk, “ if that be thy complaint, 
wdne may perhaps cure thee ;” and he reached him a 
cup, which the patient drank off to his great benefit. 

“ And now,” said the Abbot, “ let his garments be 
changed, or rather let him be carried to the infirmary ; 
for it will prejudice our health, should we hear his nar- 
rative while he stands there, steaming like a rising hoar- 
frost.” 

“ I will hear his adventure,” said Eustace, “ and re- 
port it to your reverence. And, accordingly, he attend- 
ed the Sacristan to his cell. In about half an hour he 
returned to the Abbot. 

“ How is it with Father Philip said the Abbot ; 
“ and through what came he into such a state 

“ He comes from Glendearg, reverend sir,” said Eus- 
tace ; “ and for the rest he telleth such a legend, as 
hath not been heard in this Monastery for many a long 
day.” He then gave the Abbot the outlines of the Sa- 
cristan’s adventures in the homeward journey, and added, 
that for some time he was inclined to think his brain was 
infirm, seeing he had sung, laughed, and wept, all in 
the same breath. 

“ A wonderful thing it is to us,” said the Abbot ; “ that 
Satan has been permitted to put forth his hand thus far 
on one of our sacred brethren!” 

“True,” said Father Eustace ; “ but for every text 
there is a paraphrase ; and I have my suspicions, that if 
the drenching of Father Philip cometh of the Evil One, 
yet it may not have been altogether without his own per- 
sonal fault.” 

“ How !” said the Father Abbot ; “ I will not be- 
lieve that thou rnakest doubt that Satan, in former days, 
hath been permitted to afflict saints and holy men, even 
as he afflicted the pious Job 

“ God forbid I should make question of it,” said the 
Monk, crossing himself ; “ yet, where there is an expo- 
sition of the Sacristan’s tale, which is less than miracu- 


THE mo:;asteiit. 


]03 


lous, I hold it safe to consider It at least, if not to abide 
by it. Now, this Hob the Miller hath a buxom daugh- 
ter. Suppose, I say only suppose, that our Sacristan 
met her at the ford on her return from her uncle’s on 
the other side, for there she hath this evening been — 
suppose, that, in courtesy, and to save her stripping hose 
and shoon, the Sacristan brought her across behind him 
— suppose he carried his familiarities farther than the 
naiden was willing to admit ; and we may easily sup- 
pose, farther, that this wetting was the result of it.” 

“ And this legend invented to deceive us!” said the 
Superior, reddening with wrath; “but most strictly shall 
it be sifted and inquired into ; it is not upon us that 
Father Philip must hope to pass the result of his own 
evil practices for doings of Satan. To-morrow cite the 
wench to appear before us — we will examine, and we 
will punish.” 

“ Under your Reverence’s favour,” said Eustace, 
“ that were but poor policy. As things now stand with 
us, the heretics catch hold .of each flying report which 
tends to the scandal of our clergy. We must abate the 
evil, not only by strengthening discipline, but also by sup- 
pressing and stifling the voice of scandal. If my conjec- 
tures are true, the Miller’s daughter will be silent for her 
own sake ; and your Reverence’s authority may also 
impose silence on her father, and on the Sacristan. If 
he is again found to afford room for throwing dishonour 
on his order, he can be punished with severity, but at 
the same time with secrecy. For what say the Decre- 
tals ^ Facinora ostendi dum punientur, jiagitia auiem 
abscondi dehenty 

A sentence of Latin, as Eustace had before observed, 
had often much influence on the Abbot, because he un- 
derstood it not fluently, and was ashamed to acknowdedge 
his ignorance. On these terms they parted for the night. 

The next day. Abbot Boniface strictly interrogated 
Philip on the real cause of his disaster of the previous 
night. But the Sacristan stood firm to his story ; nor 
was he found to vary from any point of it, although the 


104 


Tiin 


MCXASTET^Y. 


answers lie returned were in some degree incoherent, 
owing to his intermingling with them ever and anon 
snatches of the strange damsel’s song, which had made 
such deep impression on his imagination, that he could 
not prevent himself from imitating it repeatedly in the 
course of his examination. The Abbot had compassion 
with the Sacristan’s involuntary frailty, to which some- 
thing supernatural seemed annexed, and finally became 
of opinion, that Father Eustace’s more natural explana- 
tion was rather plausible than just. And indeed, although 
we have recorded the adventure as we find it written 
down, we cannot forbear to add that there was a schism 
on the subject in the convent, and that several of the 
brethren pretended to have good reason for thinking that 
the Miller’s black-eyed daughter was at the bottom of the 
affair after all. Whichever way it might be interpreted, 
all agreed that it had too ludicrous a sound to be per- 
mitted to get abroad, and therefore the Sacristan was 
charged on his vow of obedience to say no more of his 
ducking ; an injunction which, having once eased his 
mind by telling his story, it may be well conjectured that 
he joyfully obeyed. 

The attention of Father Eustace was much less forci- 
bly arrested by the ‘marvellous tale of the Sacristan’s 
danger, and his escape, than by the mention of the volume 
which he had brought with'him from the Tower of Glen- 
dearg. A copy of the Scriptures, translated into the 
vulgar tongue, had found its way even into the proper 
territory of the church, andhadbeen discovered in one of 
the most hidden and sequestered recesses of the Hali- 
dome of Saint Mary’s. 

He anxiously requested to see the volume. In this 
the Sacristan was unable to gratify him, for he had lost 
it as far as he had recollected, when the supernatural be- 
ing, as he conceived her to be, took her departure from 
him. Father Eustace went down to the spot in person, 
and searched all around it, in hopes of recovering the 
volume in question ; but his labour was in vain. He 
returned to the Abbot, and reported that it must have 


THE MOXASTERT. 


105 


fallen into the river or the mill-stream ; “ for I will hard- 
ly believe,” he said, “ that Father Philip’s musical 
friend would fly off with a copy of the Holy Scriptures.” 

“ Being,” said the Abbot, “ as it is, an heretical trans- 
lation, it may be thought that Satan may have power 
over it.” 

“ Ay !” said Father Eustace, “ it is indeed his chief- 
est magazine of artillery, when he inspireth presumptu- 
ous and daring men to set forth their own opinions and 
expositions of Holy Writ. But though thus abused, the 
Scriptures are the source of our salvation, and are no 
more to be reckoned unholy, because of these rash 
men’s proceedings, than a pow^erful medicine is to be 
contemned, or held poisonous, because bold and evil 
leeches have employed it to the prejudice of their pa- 
tients. With the permission of your reverence, I would 
that this matter were looked into more closely. I will 
myself visit the Tower of Glendearg ere I am many hours 
older, and we shall see if any spectre or white woman of 
the wild will venture to interrupt my journey or return. 
Have I your reverend permission and your blessing ?” he 
added, but in a tone that appeared to set no great store 
by either. 

“ Thou hast both, my brother,” Said the Abbot ; but 
no sooner had Eustace left the apartment, than Boniface 
could not help breaking on the willing ear of the Sacris- 
tan his sincere wish, that any spirit, black, white, or grey, 
would read the adviser such a lesson, as to cure him of 
his presumption in esteeming himself wiser than the whole 
community. 

“ 1 wish him no worse lesson,” said the Sacristan, 
“ than to go swimming merrily down the river with a 
ghost behind, and Kelpie’s night-crows, and mud-eels all 
waiting to have a snatch at him. 

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright I 

Good luck to your fishing', whom watch you to-night V' 

“ Brother Philip,” said the Abbot, “ we exhort thee 
to say thy prayers, compose thyself, and banish that 


106 


THE MOXASTERT. 


foolish chant from thy mind 5 — It is but a deception of 
the devil’s.” 

I will essay, reverend father,” said the Sacristan, 
“ but the tune hangs by my memory like a burr in a 
beggar’s rags ; it mingles with the psalter — the very 
bells of the convent seem to repeat the words, and jingle 
to the tune ; and were you to put me to death at this 
very moment, it is my belief 1 should die singing it — 
‘ Now swim we merrily’ — it is as it were a spell upon me.” 

He then again began to warble 

Good luck to your fishing. 

And checking himself in the strain with difficulty, he ex- 
claimed, “ It is too certain — I am but a lost priest ! 
Swim me merrily — I shall sing it at the very mass — Woe 
is me ! I shall sing all the remainder of my life, and yet 
never be able to change the tune !” 

The honest Abbot replied, “ he knew many a good 
fellow in the same condition and concluded the re- 
mark with “ ho ! ho ! ho !” for his reverence, as the 
reader may partly have observed, was one of those dull 
folks who love a quiet joke. 

The Sacristan, well acquainted with his Superior’s 
humour, endeavoured to join in the laugh, but his unfor- 
tunate canticle came again across his imagination, and 
interrupted the hilarity of his customary echo. 

“ By the rood. Brother Philip,” said the Abbot much 
moved, “ you become altogether intolerable ! and I am 
convinced that such a spell could not subsist over a per- 
son of religion, and in a religious house, unless he were 
under mortal sin. Wherefore, say the seven penitentiary 
psalms — make diligent use of thy scourge and hair-cloth 
— refrain for three days from all food, save bread and 
water — I myself will shrive thee, and we will see if this 
singing devil may be driven out of thee ; at least I think 
Father Eustace himself could devise no better exorcism.” 

The. Sacristan sighed deeply, but knew remonstrance 
was vain. He retired therefore to his cell, to try how 


THE MOXASTERY. 


107 


far psalmody might be able to drive 'off the sounds of 
the syren tune which haunted his memory. 

Meanwhile, Father Eustace proceeded to the draw- 
bridge in his way to the lonely valley of Glendearg. 
In a brief conversation with the churlish warder, he had 
the address to render him more tractable in the contro- 
versy betwixt him and the convent. He reminded him 
that his father had been a vassal under the community ; 
that his brother was childless ; and that their possessions 
would revert to the church on his death ; and might be 
either granted to himself the warder, or to some greater 
favourite of the Abbot, as matters chanced to stand be- 
twixt them at the time. The Sub-Prior suggested to 
him also, the necessary connection of interests betwixt 
the Monastery and the office which this man enjoyed. 
He listened with temper to his rude and churlish answers ; 
and by keeping his own interest firm pitched in his view, 
he had the satisfaction to find that Peter gradually soften- 
ed his tone, and consented to let every pilgrim who trav- 
elled on foot pass free of exaction until Pentecost next ; 
they who travelled on horseback or otherwise, consent- 
ing to pay the ordinary custom. Having thus accommo- 
dated a matter in wdiich the weal of the convent was so 
deeply interested. Father Eustace proceeded on his 
journey. 


. ^ CHAPTER VIII. 

Nay, dally not with time, the wise man’s treasure, 

Though fools are lavish oivt — the fatal Fisher 
Hooks souls, while we w^aste moments. 

Old Play. 

A November mist overspread the little valley, up 
which slowly but steadily rode the Monk Eustace. He 
was not insensible to the feeling of melancholy inspired 
by the scene and by the season. The stream seemed 


108 


THE MOXASTERY. 


to murmur with a deep and oppressed note, as if be- 
wailing the departure of autumn. Among the scattered 
copses which here and there fringed its banks, the oak- 
trees only retained that pallid green that precedes their 
russet hue. The leaves of the willows were most of them 
stripped from the branches, lay rustling at each breath, 
and disturbed by every step of the mule ; while the fo- 
liage of other trees, totally withered, kept still precarious 
possession of the boughs, waiting the first wind to scatter 
them. 

The Monk dropped into the natural train of pensive 
thought which these autumnal emblems of mortal hopes 
are peculiarly calculated to inspire. “ There,” he said, 
looking at the leaves which lay strewed around, “lie the 
hopes of early youth, first formed that they may soonest 
wither, and loveliest in spring to become most contempti- 
ble in winter ; but you, ye lingerers,” he added, looking 
to a knot of beeches which still bore their withered 
leaves, “ you are the proud plans of adventurous man- 
hood, formed later, and still clinging to the mind of age, 
although it acknowledges their inanity ! None lasts — 
none endures, save the foliage of the hardy oak, which 
only begins to show itself when that of the rest of the 
forest has enjoyed half its existence. A pale and de- 
cayed hue is all it possesses, but still it retains that symp- 
tom of vitality to the last. — So be it with Father Eus- 
tace ! The fairy hopes of my youth I have trodden 
under foot like those neglected rustlers — to the prouder 
dreams of my manhood I look back as to lofty chime- 
ras, of which the pith and essence have long since faded ; 
but my religious vows, the faithful profession which I 
have made in my maturer age, shall retain life while 
aught of Eustace lives. Dangerous it may be — feeble 
it must be — yet live it shall, the proud determination to 
serve the church of -which 1 am a member, and to com- 
bat the heresies by which she is assailed.” Thus spoke, 
at least thus thought, a man zealous according to his 
imperfect knowledge, confounding the vital interests of 
Christianity with the extravagant and usurped claims 


THE MONASTERY. 


109 


of the Church of Rome, and defending his cause with 
ardour worthy of a better. 

While moving onward in this contemplative mood, he 
could not help thinking more than once, that he saw in 
his path the form of a female dressed in white, who 
appeared in the attitude of lamentation. But the im- 
pression was only momentary, and whenever he looked 
steadily to the point where he conceived the figure ap- 
peared, it always proved that he had mistaken some 
natural object, a white crag, or the trunk of a decayed 
birch-tree with its silver bark, for the appearance in 
question. 

Father Eustace had dwelt too long in Rome to par- 
take the superstitious feelings of the more ignorant 
Scottish clergy ; yet he certainly thought it extraordina- 
ry, that so strong an impression should have been made 
on his mind by the legend of the Sacristan. “ It is 
strange,” he said to himself, “ that this story, which 
doubtless w^as the invention of Brother Philip to cover 
his own impropriety of conduct, should run so much in 
my head and disturb my more serious thoughts — 1 am 
wont, I think, to have more command over my senses. 
I will repeat my prayers, and banish such folly from my 
recollection.” 

The Monk accordingly began with devotion to tell his 
beads, in pursuance of the prescribed rule of his order, 
and was not again disturbed by any wanderings of the 
imagination, until he found himself beneath the little fort- 
alice of Glendearg. 

Dame Glendinning, who stood at the gate, set up a 
shout of surprise and joy at seeing the good father 
“ Martin,” she said, “ Jasper, where be a’ the folk — 
help the right reverend Sub-Prior to dismount, and take 
his mule from him — O father ! God has sent you in 
our need — I was just going to send man and horse to 
the Convent, though I ought to be ashamed to give so 
much trouble to your reverences.” 

JO VOL. I. 


no 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Our trouble matters not, good dame,” said Father 
Eustace ; “ in what can I pleasure you f I came hither 
to visit the Lady of Avenel.” 

“ Well-a-day !” said dame Elspeth, “ and it was on 
her part that I had the boldness to think of summoning 
you, for the good lady will never be able to wear over 
the day ! — Would it please you to go to her chamber ?” 

“ Hath she not been shriven by Father Philip ?” said 
the Monk. 

“ Shriven she was,” said the dame of Glendearg, 
“ and by Father Philip, as your reverence truly says — 
but — I wish it may have been a clean shrift — Me- 
thought Father Philip looked but moody upon it — and 
there was a book which he took away with him, that” — 
She paused as if unwilling to proceed. 

“ Speak out. Dame Glendinning,” said the Father ; 
“ with us it is your duty to have no secrets.” 

“ Nay, if it please your reverence, it is not that I 
would keep any thing from your reverence’s knowledge, 
but I fear I should prejudice the lady in your opinion ; 
for she is an excellent lady — months and years has she 
dwelt in this tower, and none more exemplary than she ; 
but this matter, doubtless, she will explain it herself to 
your reverence.” 

“ I desire first to know it from you. Dame Glendin- 
ning,” said the Monk ; “ and I again repeat, it is your 
duty to tell it to me.” 

“ This book, if it please your reverence, which Father 
Philip removed from Glendearg, was this morning re- 
turned to us in a strange manner,” said the good widow. 

“ Returned !” said the Monk ; “ How mean you ?” 

“I mean,” answered Dame Glendinning, “ that it was 
brought back to the tower of Glendearg, the saints best 
know how — that same book which Father Philip carried 
with him but yesterday. Old Martin, that is my tasker 
and the lady’s servant, was driving out the cows to the 
pasture — for we have three good milk-cows, reverend 
father, blessed be Saint Waldhave, and thanks to the 
Holy Monastery” 


THE MONASTERY. 


Ill 


The Monk groaned with impatience ; but he remem- 
bered that a woman of the good dame’s condition was 
like a top, which, if you let it spin on untouched, must 
at last come to a pause ; but, if you interrupt it by flog- 
ging, there is no end to its gyrations. “ But to speak 
no more of the cows, your reverence, though they are 
likely cattle as ever were tied to a stake, the tasker was 
driving them out, and the lads, that is my Halbert and 
my Edward, that your reverence has seen at church on 
holidays, and especially Halbert, — for you patted him on 
the head and gave him a brooch of Saint Cuthbert, which 
he wears in his bonnet, — and little Mary Avenel, that is 
the lady’s daughter, they ran all after the cattle, and be- 
gan to play up and down the pasture as young folk will, 
your reverence. And at length they lost sight of Martin 
and the cows ; and they began to run up a little cleuch 
which we call Corrinan-shian, where there is a wee bit 
stripe of a burn, and they saw there — Good guide us ! 
— a white woman sitting on the burn-side wringing her 
hands — so the bairns were frighted to see a strange 
woman sitting there, all but Halbert, who will be sixteen 
come Whitsuntide ; and besides he never feared ony- 
thing — and when they went up to her — ^behold she was 
passed away !” 

“ For shame, good woman !” said Father Eustace ; 
“ a woman of your sense to listen to a tale so idle ! — the 
young folk told you a lie, and that was all.” 

“ Nay sir, it was more than that,” said the old dame ; 
“ for, besides that they never told me a lie in their live's, 
I must warn you that on the very ground where the White 
Woman was sitting they found the Lady of Avenel’s 
book, and brought it with them to the tower.” 

“ That is worthy of mark at least,” said the Monk. 
“ Know you no other copy of this volume within these 
bounds 

“ None, your reverence,” returned Elspeth ; “ why 
should there — no one could read it, were there twenty.” 

“ Then you are sure it is the very same volume which 
you gave to Father Philip?” said the Monk. 


112 


THE MOXASTERY. 


“ As sure as that I now speak with your reverence.” 

“ It is most singular !” said the Monk ; and he walk- 
ed across the room in a musing posture. 

“ 1 have been upon nettles to hear what your reverence 
would say,” continued Dame Glendinning, “ respecting 
this matter. — There is nothing 1 would not do ibr the 
Lady of Avenel and her family, and that has been prov- 
ed, and for her servants to boot, both Martin and Tibb, 
although Tibb is not so civil sometimes as altogether I 
have a right to expect ; but I cannot think it beseeming 
to have angels, or ghosts, or fairies, or the like, waiting 
upon a leddy when she is in another woman’s house, in 
respect it is no ways creditable. Onything she had to 
do was always done to her hand, without costing her 
either pains or pence, as a country body says ; and 
besides the discredit, I cannot but think that there is no 
safety in having such unchancy creatures about ane. 
But I have tied red thread round the bairns’s throats, (so 
her fondness still called them,) and given ilk ane of them 
a riding wand of rowan-tree, forby sewing up a slip of 
witch-elm into their doublets ; and I wish to know of 
your reverence if there be onything mair that a lone 
woman can do in the matter of ghosts and fairies ?-Be 
here ! that 1 should have named their unlucky names 
twice ower !” 

“ Dame Glendinning,” answered the Monk, some- 
what abruptly, when the good woman had finished her 
narrative, I pray you, do you know the Miller’s daugh- 
ter 

“ Did I know Kate Happer replied the widow ; 
‘‘ as weel as the beggar knows his dish — a canty quean 
was Kate, and a special cummer of my ain may be 
twenty years syne.” 

“ She cannot be the wench I mean,” said Father 
Eustace ; “ she after whom I inquire is scarce fifteen, a 
black-eyed girl — you may have seen her at the kirk.” 

“ Your reverence must be in the right ; and she is my 
cummer’s niece, doubtless, that you are pleased to speak 
of ; but I thank God 1 have always been too duteous in 


THE MONASTERY. 


IIS 


attention to the mass, to know whether young wenches 
have black eyes or green ones.” 

The good father had so much of the world about him, 
that he was unable to avoid smiling, when the dame 
boasted her absolute resistance to a temptation, which 
was not quite so liable to beset her as those of the other 
sex. 

“ Perhaps then,” he said, “ you know her usual dress. 
Dame Glendinning 

“ Ay, ay. Father,” answered the dame readily enough, 
“ a white kirtle the wench wears, to hide the dust of 
the mill no doubt — and a blue hood, that might weel be 
spared, for pridefulness.” 

“ Then may it not be she,” said the father, “ who has 
brought back this book, and stepped out of the way 
when the children came near her 

The dame paused — was unwilling to combat the solu- 
tion suggested by the Monk — but was at a loss to con- 
ceive why the lass of the mill should come so far from 
home into so wild a corner, merely to leave an old book 
with three children, from whose observation she wished 
to conceal herself. Above all, she could not understand 
why, since she had acquaintances in the family, and since 
the Dame Glendinning had always paid her multure and 
knaveship duly, the said lass of the mill had not come in 
to rest herself and eat a morsel, and tell her the current 
news of the water. 

These very objections satisfied the Monk that his con- 
jectures were right. “ Dame,” he said, “ you must be 
cautious in what you say. This is an instance — I would 
it were the sole one — of the power of the Enemy in 
these days. The matter must be sifted with a curious 
and careful hand.” 

“ Indeed,” said Elspeth, trying to catch and chime 
in with the ideas of the Sub-Prior, I have often thought 
the Miller’s folk at the Monastery-mill were far over 
careless in sifting our melder, and in bolting it too — some 
10 * VOL. I. 


114 


THE MOXASTERY. 


folks say they will not stick at whiles to put in a handful 
of ashes amongst Christian folk’s corn-rneal.” 

“ That shall be looked after, also, dame,” said the 
Sub-Prior, not displeased to see that the good old woman 
went off on a false scent ; “ and now, by your leave, I 
will see this lady — do you go before, and prepare her 
to see me.” 

Dame Glendinning left the lower apartment accord- 
ingly, which the Monk paced in anxious reflection, con- 
sidering how he might best discharge, with humanity as 
well as with effect, the important duty imposed on him. 

He resolved to approach the bed-side of the sick per- 
son wdth reprimands, mitigated only by a feeling for her 
weak condition — he determined, in case of her reply, to 
which late examples of hardened heretics might encour- 
age her, to be prepared with answers to their customary 
scruples. High fraught, also, with zeal against her un- 
authorized intrusion into the priestly function, by study of 
the Sacred Scriptures, he imagined to himself the an- 
swers which one of the modern school of heresy might 
return to him — the victorious refutation which should lay 
the disputant prostrate at the Confessor’s mercy — and 
the healing, yet awful exhortation, which, under pain of 
refusing the last consolations of religion, he designed to 
make to the penitent, conjuring her, as she loved her own 
soul’s welfare, to disclose to him what she knew of the 
dark mystery of iniquity, by which heresies were intro- 
duced into the most secluded spots of the very patrimo- 
ny of the church herself — what agents they had who 
could thus glide, as it were unseen, from place to place, 
bring back the volume which the church had interdicted 
to the spots from which it had been removed under her 
express auspices ; and who, by encouraging the daring 
and profane thirst after knowledge forbidden and useless 
to the laity, had encouraged the fisher of souls to use 
with effect his old bait of ambition and vain-glory. 

Much of this premeditated disputation escaped the 
good father, when Elspeth returned, her tears flowing 
faster than her apron could dry them, and made him a 


THE MOXASTERY. 


115 


signal to follow her. “ How,” said the Monk, ‘‘ is she 
then so near her end — nay, the church must not break 
or bruise, when comfort is yet possible and, forget- 
ting his polemics, the good Sub-Prior hastened to the 
little apartment, where, on the wretched bed which she 
had occupied since her misfortunes had driven her to the 
Tower of Glendearg, the widow of Walter Avenel had 
rendered up her spirit to her Creator. “ My God !” 
said the Sub-Prior, “ and has my unfortunate dallying 
suffered her to depart without the Church’s consolation ! 
Look to her, dame,” he exclaimed with eager impa- 
tience ; “ is there not yet a sparkle of the life left ? — 
may she not be recalled — recalled but for a moment ? — 
Oh ! would that she could express, but by the most im- 
perfect word — but by the most feeble motion, her ac- 
quiescence in the needful task of penitential prayer ! 
Does she not breathe F — Art thou sure she doth not 

“ She will never breathe more,” said the matron. — 
“ O ! the poor fatherless girl — now motherless also — 
O ! the kind companion 1 have had these many years, 
whom I shall never see again ! But she is in Heaven for 
certain, if ever woman went there ; for a woman of 
better life ” 

“ Woe to me,” said the good Monk, “ if indeed she 
went not hence in good assurance — woe to the reckless 
shepherd, who suffered the wolf to carry a choice one 
from the flock, while he busied himself with trimming 
his sling and his staff to give the monster battle ! O ! 
if, in the long hereafter, aught but weal should that poor 
spirit share, what has my delay cost ! — the value of an 
immortal soul !” 

He then approached the body, full of the deep 
remorse natural to a good man of his persuasion, who 
devoutly believed the doctrines of the Catholic Church. 
“ Ay,” said he, gazing on the pallid corpse, from which 
the spirit had parted so placidly as to leave a smile upon 
the thin blue lips, which had been so long wasted by 
decay that they had parted with the last breath of anima- 
tion without the slightest convulsive tremor — “ Ay,” 


116 


THE MONASTERY. 


said Father Eustace, “ there lies the faded tree, and, as 
it fell so it lies — awl^ul thought for me, should my neg- 
lect have left it to descend in an evil direction!” He 
then again and again conjured Dame Glendinning to tell 
him what she knew of the demeanour and ordinary walk 
of the deceased. 

All tended to the high honour of the deceased lady ; 
for her companion, who admired her sufficiently while 
alive, notwithstanding some trifling points of jealousy, 
now idolized her after her death, and could think of no 
attribute of praise with which she did not adorn her 
memory. 

Indeed, the Lady of Avenel, however she might 
privately doubt some of the doctrines announced by the 
Church of Rome, and although she had probably tacitly 
appealed from that corrupted system of Christianity to 
the volume on which Christianity itself is founded, had 
nevertheless been regular in her attendance on the wor- 
ship of the church, not, perhaps, extending her scruples 
so far as to break off communion. Such indeed was 
the first sentiment of the earlier reformers, who seemed 
to have studied, for a lime at least, to avoid a schism, 
until the violence of the Pope rendered it inevitable. 

Father Eustace, on the present occasion, listened with 
eagerness to every thing which could lead to assure him 
of the lady’s orthodoxy in the main points of belief ; for 
his conscience reproached him sorely, that instead of 
protracting conversation with the Dame of Glendearg, he 
had not instantly hastened where his presence was 
so necessary. “If,” he said, addressing the dead body, 
“ thou art yet free from the utmost penalty due to the fol- 
lowers of false doctrine — if thou dost but suffer for a time 
to expiate faults done in the body, but partaking of 
mortal frailty more than of deadly sin, fear not that thy 
abode shall be long in the penal regions to which thou 
mayest be doomed — if vigils — if masses — if penance — 
if maceration of my body, till it resembles that extenuat- 
ed form which the soul hath abandoned, may assure thy 
deliverance. The Holy Church — the godly foundation 


THE MONASTERY. 


117 


— our blessed Patroness herself, shall intercede for one 
whose errors were counterbalanced by so many virtues. 
— Leave me, dame — here, and by her bed-side, will I 
perform those duties which this piteous case demands 

Elspeth left the Monk, who employed himself in fer- 
vent and sincere, though erroneous prayers, for the weal 
of the departed spirit. For an hour he remained in 
the apartment of death, and then returned to the hall, 
where he found the still weeping friend of the deceased. 

But it would be injustice to Mrs. Elspeth Glendin- 
ning’s hospitality, if we suppose her to have been weeping 
during this long interval, or rather, if we suppose her so 
entirely absorbed by the tribute of sorrow which she 
paid frankly and plentifully to her deceased friend, as to 
be incapable of attending to the rights of hospitality due 
to the holy visiter — who was confessor at once, and Sub- 
Prior — mighty in all religious and secular considerations, 
so far as the vassals of the Monastery were interested. 

Her barley-bread had been toasted — her choicest 
cask of home-brewed ale had been broached — her best 
butter had been placed on the hall-table, along with her 
most savoury ham and her choicest cheese, ere she 
abandoned herself to the extremity of sorrow ; and it 
was not till she had arranged her little repast neatly on 
the board, that she sat down in the chimney corner, 
threw her checked apron over her head, and gave w^ay 
to the current of tears and sobs. In this there was no 
grimace or affectation. The good dame held the hon- 
ours of her house to be as essential a duty, especially 
when a monk was her visitant, as any other pressing call 
upon her conscience ; nor until these were suitably at- 
tended to did she find herself at liberty to indulge her 
sorrow for her departed friend. 

When she was conscious of the Sub-Prior’s presence, 
she rose with the same attention to his reception ; but he 
declined all the offers of hospitality with which she en- 
deavoured to tempt him. Not her butter, as yellow as 
gold, and the best she assured him, that was made in the 
patrimony of Saint Mary — not the barley-scones, which 


118 


THE MOXASTEET. 


“ the departed saint, God sain her ! used to say were so 
good” — not the ale, nor any other cates which poor 
Elspeth’s stores afforded, could prevail on the Sub- 
Prior to break his fast. 

“ This day,” he said, “ I must not taste food until the 
sun go down, happy if, in so doing, I can expiate iny own 
negligence — happier still, if my sufferings of this trifling 
nature, undertaken in pure faith and singleness of heart, 
may benefit the soul of the deceased. Yet dame,” he 
added, “ I may not so far forget the living in my cares 
for the dead, as to leave behind me that book, which is to 
the ignorant, what, to our first parents, the Tree of 
Knowledge of Good and Evil unhappily proved — excel- 
lent indeed in itself, but fatal, because used by those to 
whom it is prohibited.” 

“ O, blithely, reverend father,” said the widow of 
Simon Glendinning, will I give you the book, if so be 
I can wile it from the bairns ; and indeed, poor things, 
as the case stands with them even now, you might take 
the heart out of their bodies, and they never find it out, 
they are sae begrutten.”* 

“ Give them this missal instead, good dame,” said the 
Father, drawing from his pocket one which was curious- 
ly illuminated with paintings, “ and I will come myself, 
or send one at a fitting time, and teach them the 
meaning of these pictures.” 

“ The bonnie images,” said Dame Glendinning, for- 
getting for an instant her grief in her admiration, “ and 
weel I wot,” added she, “ it is another sort of a book 
than the poor Lady of Avenel’s ; and blessed might we 
have been this day, if your reverence had found the 
way up the glen, instead of Father Philip, though the 
Sacristan is a powerful man too, and speaks as if he 
would gar the house fly abroad, save that the walls are 
gay thick. Simon’s forebears (may he and they be bles- 
sed !) took care of that.” 


* Begrutten — over-wept. 


THE MO:XASTERY. 


119 


The Monk ordered his mule, and was about to take his 
eave ; and the good dame was still delaying him with 
questions about the funeral, when a horseman, armed and 
accoutred, rode into the little court-yard which surround- 
ed the Keep. 


CHAPTER IX. 


For since they rode among our doors 
With splent on spauld and rusty spurs, 

There grows no fruit into our furs ; 

Thus said John Up-on-land. 

Bannatyne MS. 

The Scottish laws, which were as wisely and judi 
ciously made as they were carelessly and ineffectually 
executed, had in vain endeavoured to restrain the dam- 
age done to agriculture, by the chiefs and landed propri- 
etors retaining in their service what were called Jack- 
men, from the jack, or doublet quilted with iron, which 
they wore as defensive armour. These military retain- 
ers conducted themselves with great insolence towards 
the industrious part of the community — lived in a great 
measure by plunder, and were ready to execute any 
commands of their master, however unlawful. In adopt- 
ing this mode of life, men resigned the quiet hopes and 
regular labours of industry, for an unsettled, precarious, 
and dangerous trade, which yet had such charms for 
those once accustomed to it, that they became incapable 
of following any other. Hence the complaint of John 
Upland, a hctitious character, representing a countryman, 
into whose mouth the poets of the day put their general 
satires upon men and manners ; 

They ride about in such a rage, 

^ By forest, frith and field. 

With buckler, bow, and brand. 


120 


THE SIONASTEIIY. 


Lo ! where they ride out through the rye ! 

The Devil mot save the company, 

Quoth John Up-on-land. 

Christie of the Clint-hill, the horseman who now 
arrived at the little tower of Glendearg, was one of the 
hopeful company of whom the poet complains, as was 
indicated by his “ splent on spauld,” (iron-plates on his 
shoulder,) his rusted spurs, and his long lance. An iron 
scull-cap, none of the brightest, bore for distinction a 
sprig of the holly, which was Avenel’s badge. A long 
two-edged straight sword, having a handle made of pol- 
ished oak, hung down by his side. The meagre con- 
dition of his horse, and the wild and emaciated look of 
the rider, showed their occupation could not be account- 
ed an easy or a thriving one. He saluted Dame Glen- 
dinning with little courtesy, and the Monk with less ; for 
the growing disrespect to the religious orders had not 
failed to extend itself among a class of men of such 
disorderly habits, although it may be supposed they were 
tolerably indifferent alike to the new or the ancient 
doctrines. 

“ So, our Lady is dead. Dame Glendinning?” said the 
jack-man ; “ my master has sent you even now a fat 
bullock for her mart — it may serve for her funeral. I 
have left him in the upper cleuch, as he is somewhat ken- 
speckle,* and is marked both with cut and him — the 
sooner the skin is off, and he is in saultfat, the less like 
you are to have trouble~you understand me } Let me 
have a peck of corn for my horse, and beef and beer 
for myself, for I must go on to the Monastery — though 
I think this Monk here might do mine errand.” 

“ Thine errand, rude man!” said the Sub-Prior, knit- 
ting his brows 

“ For God’s sake I” said poor Dame Glendinning, 
terrified at the idea of a quarrel between them, — “ O 
Christie ! it is the Sub-Prior — O reverend sir, it is 


Ken-speckle — that which is easily recognized by the eye. 


TUE MONASTERY. 


121 


Christie of the Clint-hill, the laird’s chief jack-man ; ye 
know that little havings can be expected from the like o’ 
them.” 

“ Are you a retainer of the laird of Avenel ?” said the 
Monjc, addressing himself to the horseman ; “ and do 
you speak thus rudely to a brother of Saint Mary’s, to 
whom thy master is so much beholden 

“ He means to be yet more beholden to your house, 
Sir Monk,” answered the fellow ; “ for hearing his sister- 
in-law, the Widow of Walter of Avenel, was on her 
death-bed, he sent me to say to the Father Abbot and 
the brethren, that he will hold the funeral-feast at their 
convent, and invites himself thereto with a score of horse, 
and some friends, and to' abide there for three days and 
three nights, — having horse-meat and men’s-meat at the 
charge of the community ; of which his intention he 
sends due notice, that fitting preparation may be time- 
ously made.” 

“ Friend,” said the Sub-Prior, “ believe not that I 
will do to the Father Abbot the indignity of delivering 
such an errand. Think’st thou the goods of the church 
were bestowed upon her by holy princes and pious nobles, 
now dead and gone, to be consumed in revelry by every 
profligate layman who numbers in his train more follow- 
ers than he can support by honest means, or by his own 
incomings ? Tell thy master, from the Sub-Prior of 
Saint Mary’s, that the Primate hath issued his commands 
to us that we submit no longer to this compulsory exac- 
tion of hospitality on slight or false pretences. Our 
lands and goods were given to relieve pilgrims and pious 
persons, not to feast bands of rude soldiers.” 

“ This to me !” said the angry spearman, “ this to me 
and to my master ? — Look to yourself then. Sir Priest, 
and try if Ave and Credo will keep bullocks from wan- 
dering and hay-stacks from burning.” 

“ Dost thou menace the holy Church’s patrimony 
with waste and fire-raising,” said the Sub-Prior, “ and 
that in the face of the sun ? I call on all who hear me 

1 1 VOL. I. 


122 


Tim MO-VASTS RY. 


to bear witness to the words this ruffian has spo' en. Re- 
member bow the Lord James drowned such as you by 
scores in the black pool at Jeddart. To him and to the 
Primate will 1 complain.” The soldier shifted the posi- 
tion of his lance, and brought it down to a level with the 
Monk’s body. 

Dame Glendinning began to shriek for assistance. 
“ Tibb Tacket ! Martin ! where be ye all — Christie, 
for the love of God, consider he is a man of holy kirk!” 

“ I care not for his spear,” said the Sub-Prior ; “ if 
I am slain in defending the rights and privileges of my 
community, the Primate will know how to take ven- 
geance.” « 

“ Let him look to himself,” said Christie, but at the 
same time depositing his lance against the wall of the 
tower ; “ if the Fife men spoke true who came hither 
with the Governor in the last raid, Norman Leslie has 
him at feud, and is like to set him hard. We know Nor- 
man a true blood-hound, who will never quit the slot. 
But I had no design to offend the holy father,” he added, 
thinking perhaps he had gone a little too far ; “lam 
a rude man, bred to lance and stirrup, and not used to 
deal with book-learned men and priests ; and I am will- 
ing to ask his forgiveness and his blessing, if I have said 
aught amiss.” 

“ For God’s sake, your reverence,” said the widow 
of Glendearg apart to the Sub-Prior, “ bestow on him 
your forgiveness — how shall we poor folks sleep in se- 
curity in the dark nights, if the Convent is at feud with 
such men as he is 

“ You are right, dame,” said the Sub-Prior, “ your 
safety should, and must be in the first instance consulted. 
— Soldier, I forgive thee, and may God bless thee and 
send thee honesty!” 

Christie of the Clint-hill made an unwilling inclination 
with his head, and muttered apart, “ that is as much as 
to say, God send thee starvation. — But now to my mas- 
ter’s demand. Sir Priest ^ What answer am I to return ?” 


THE MOXASTEUT. 


123 


“ That the body of the widow of Walter of Avenel,” 
answered the Father, “ shall be interred as becomes her 
rank, and in the tomb of her valiant husband. For your 
master’s proffered visit of three days, with such a com- 
pany and retinue, 1 have no authority to reply to it ; you 
must intimate your Chief’s purpose to the Reverend 
Lord Abbot.” 

“ That will cost me a farther ride,” said the man, 
“ but it is all in the day’s work. — How now, my lad,” 
said he to Halbert, who was handling the long lance which 
he had laid aside ; “ how do you like such a play-thing ? 
— will you go with me and be a moss-trooper ?” 

“ The saints in their mercy forbid !” said the poor 
mother ; and then, afraid of having displeased Christie 
by the vivacity of her exclamation, she followed it up 
by explaining, that since Simon’s death she could not 
look on a spear or a bow, or any implement of destruc- 
tion, without trembling. 

“ Pshaw !” answered Christie, “ thou should’st take 
another husband, dame, and drive such follies out of thy 
thoughts — what say’st thou to such a strapping lad as 1 f 
Why, this old tower of thine is fencible enough, and there 
is no want of cleuchs, and crags, and bogs, and thick- 
ets, if one was set hard ; a man might bide here and 
keep his half-score of lads, and as many geldings, and 
live on what he could lay his hand on, and be kind to 
thee, old wench.” 

‘‘ Alas ! Master Christie,” said the matron, “ that you 
should talk to a lone woman in such a fashion, and death 
in the house besides !” 

“ Lone woman ! — why, that is the very reason thou 
should’st take a mate. Thy old friend is dead, why 
good — choose thou another of somewhat tougher frame, 
and that will not die of the pip like a young chicken. — 
Better still — Come, dame, let me have something to eat, 
and we will talk more of this.” 

Dame Elspeth, though she well knew the character of 
the man, whom in fact she both disliked and feared, could 
not help simpering at the personal address which he 
thought proper to make to her. She whispered to the 


124 


THE MOXASTETIY. 


Sub-Prior, “ ony thing just to keep him quiet,” and 
went into the tower to set before the soldier the food he 
desired, trusting, betwixt good, cheer and the power of 
her own charms, to keep Christie of the Clint-hill so 
well amused, that the altercation betwixt him and the holy 
father should not be renewed. 

The Sub-Prior was equally unwilling to hazard any 
unnecessary rupture between the community and such a 
person as Julian of Avenel. He was sensible that mod- 
eration, as well as firmness, was necessary to support the 
tottering cause of the Church of Rome ; and that, con- 
trary to former times, the quarrels betwixt the clergy 
and laity had, in the present, usually terminated to the 
advantage of the latter. He resolved, therefore, to avoid 
further strife by withdrawing, but failed not, in the first 
place, to possess himself of the volume which the Sacris- 
tan carried off the evening before, and which had been 
returned to the glen in such a marvellous manner. 

Edward, the younger of Dame Elspeth’s boys, made 
great objections to the book being removed, in which 
Mary would probably have joined, but that she was now 
in her little sleeping-chamber with Tibb, who was exert- 
ing her simple skill to console the young lady for her 
mother’s death. But the younger Glendinning stood up 
in defence of her property, and with a positiveness which 
had hitherto made no part of his character, declared, 
that now the kind lady was dead, the book was Mary’s, 
and no one but Mary should have it. 

“ But if it is not a fit book for Mary to read, my dear 
boy,” said the Father gently ; “ you would not wish it 
to remain with her?” 

‘‘ The lady read it,” answered the young champion 
of property ; “ and so it could not be wrong — it shall 
not be taken away. — I wonder where Halbert is ? — list- 
ening to the bravading tales of gay Christie, I reckon — 
he is always wishing for fighting, and now he is out of 
the way.” 

“ Why, Edward, you would not fight with me, who 
am both a priest and an old man 


THE MONASTERY. 


125 


“ If you were as good a priest as the Pope,” said the boy, 
“ and as old as the hills to boot, you shall not carry away 
Mary’s book without her leave. 1 will do battle for it.” 

“ But see you, my love,” said the Monk, amused with 
the resolute friendship manifested by the boy, “ 1 do not 
take it ; I only borrow it ; and I leave in its place my 
own gay missal, as a pledge I will bring it back again.” 

Edward opened the missal with eager curiosity, and 
glanced at the pictures with which it was illustrated. 
“ Saint George and the dragon — Halbert will like that ; 
and Saint Michael brandishing his sword over the head 
of the Wicked One — and that will do for Halbert too. 
And see the Saint John leading his lamb in the wilderness, 
with his little cross made of reeds, and his scrip and 
staff — that shall be my favourite ; and where shall we 
find one for poor Mary ? — here is a beautiful woman 
weeping and lamenting herself.” 

“ That is Saint Mary Magdalen repenting of her sins, 
my dear boy,” said the Father. 

“ That will not suit our Mary ; for she commits no 
faults and is never angry with us, but when we do some- 
thing wrong.” 

“ Then,” said the Father, “ I will show you a Mary, 
who will protect her and you, and all good children. See 
how fairly she is represented with her gown covered witn 
golden stars.” 

The boy was lost in wonder • at the portrait of the 
Virgin, which the Sub-Prior turned up to him. 

“ This,” he said, “ is really like our sweet Mary ; 
and I think I will let you take away the black book, that 
has no such goodly shows in it, and leave this for Mary 
instead. But you must promise to bring back the book, 
good Father — for now I think upon it, Mary may like 
that best which was her mother’s.” 

“ I will certainly return,” said the Monk, evading his 
answer, “ and perhaps I may teach you to write and read 
such beautiful letters as you see there written, and to 
11 * VOL. I. 


126 


THE MOXASTERY. 


paint them blue, green, and yellow, and to blazon them 
with gold.” 

“ Ay, and to make such figures as these blessed 
Saints, and especially these two Marys said the boy. 

‘‘ With their blessing,” said the Sub-Prior, “ I can 
teach you that art too, so far as I am myself capable of 
showing, and you of learning it.” 

“ Then,” said Edward, “ will I paint Mary’s picture 
— and remember you are to bring back the black book ; 
that you must promise me.” 

The Sub-Prior, anxious to get rid of the boy’s perti- 
nacity, and to set forward on his return to the convent, 
without having any farther interview with Christie the 
galloper, answered by giving the promise Edward re- 
quired, mounted his mule, and set forth on his return 
homeward. 

The November day was well spent ere the Sub-Prior 
resumed his journey ; for the difficulty of the road, and 
the various delays which he had met with at the tower 
had detained him longer than he proposed. A chill 
easterly wind was sighing among the withered leaves, and 
stripping them from the hold they had yet retained on 
the parent trees. 

“ Even so,” said the Monk, “ our prospects in this 
vale of time grow more disconsolate as the stream of 
years passes on. Little have I gained by my journey, 
saving the certainty that heresy is busy among us with 
more than his usual activity, and that the spirit of insult- 
ing religious orders, and plundering the Church’s pro- 
perty, so general in the eastern districts of Scotland, 
has now come nearer home.” 

The tread of a horse which came up behind him, in- 
terrupted his reverie, and he soon saw he was mounted 
by the same wild rider whom he had left at the tower. 

“ Good even, my son, and benedicite,” said the Sub- 
Prior as he passed ; but the rude soldier scarce ac- 
knowledged the greeting, by bending his head ; and 
dashing the spurs into his horse, went on at a pace which 
soon left the Monk and his mule far behind. ‘‘ And 


THE MONASTERY. 


127 


there,” thought the Sub-Prior, “ goes another plague 
of the times — a fellow whose birth designed him to culti- 
vate the earth, but who is perverted by the unhallowed 
and unchristian divisions of the country, into a daring 
dissolute robber. The barons of Scotland are now turn- 
ed masterful thieves and ruffians, oppressing the poor by 
violence, and wasting the Church, by extorting free- 
quarters from Abbeys and Priories, without either shame 
or -reason. — 1 fear me I shall be too late to counsel the 
Abbot to make a stand against these daring sorners.* — I 
must make haste.” He struck his mule with his riding- 
wand accordingly ; but, instead of mending her pace, 
the animal suddenly started from the path, and the rider’s 
utmost efforts could not force her forward. 

“ Art thou, too, infected with the spirit of the times .^” 
said the Sub-Prior ; “ thou wert wont to be ready and 

serviceable, and art now as restive as any wild jackman 
or stubborn heretic of them all.” 

While he was contending with the startled animal, a 
voice, like that of a female, chanted in his ear, or at least 
very close to it, 

<< Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you ride, 

With your mule so fair, and your mantle so wide ; 

But ride you through valley, or ride you o'er hill, 

There is one that has warrant to wait on you still. 

Back, back, 

The volume black 1 
I have a warrant to carry it back." 

The Sub-Prior looked around, but neither bush nor 
brake was near which could conceal an ambushed song- 
stress. “ May our Lady have mercy on me !” he said ; 


To some, in Scotland, is to exact free quarters against the will of the land- 
lord It is declared equivalent to theft by a statute passed in the year l44o. 
The’ great chieftains oppressed the Monasteries very much by exactions of this 
nature The community of Aberbrothwick complained of an Earl of Angus, 
I think, who was in the regular habit of visiting them once a-year, with a tram 
of a thousand horse, and abiding till the whole winter provisions of the convent 
were exhausted. 


128 


THE MOXASTERY. 


“ I trust iny senses Lave not forsaken me — yet how my 
thoughts should arrange themselves into rhimes which I 
despise, and music which 1 care not for, or why there 
should be the sound of a female voice in ears, to which 
its melody has been so long indifferent, baffles my com- 
prehension, and almost realizes the vision of Philip the 
Sacristan. — Come, good mule, betake thee to the path, 
and let us hence while our judgment serves us.” 

But the mule stood as if she had been rooted to the 
spot, backed from the point to which she was pressed by 
her rider, and by her ears laid close into her neck, and 
her eyes almost starting from their sockets, testified that 
she was under great terror. 

While the Sub-Prior, by alternate threats and soothing, 
endeavoured to reclaim the wayward animal to her duty, 
the wild musical voice w'as again heard close beside him. 

What ho ! Sub-Prior, and came you but here 
To conjure a book from a dead woman’s bier ! 

Sain you, and save you, be wary and wise, 

Ride back with the book or you’ll pay for your prize. 

Back, back. 

There’s death in the track ! 

In the name of my master, I bid thee bear back.” 

“ In the name of my Master,” said the astonished 
Monk, “ that name before which all things created trem- 
ble, 1 conjure thee to say what thou art, that hauntest me 
thus r 

The same voice replied, . 

“ That which is neither ill nor well. 

That which belongs not to Heaven nor to hell, 

A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the stream, 

’Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping dream ; 

A form that men spy. 

With the half-shut eye, 

In the beams of the setting sun am I.” 


“ This is more than simple phantasy,” said the Sub- 
Prior, rousing himself ; though, notwithstanding the nat- 


THE MOXASTEET. 


129 


ural hardihood of his temper, the sensible presence of a 
supernatural being so near him, failed not to make his 
blood run cold and his hair bristle. “ I charge thee,” 
he said aloud, “ be thine errand what it will, to depart 
and trouble me no more ! — False spirit, thou canst not 
appal any save those who do the work negligently.” 

The voice immediately answered : 

“ Vainly, Sir Prior, would’st thou bar me my right ! 

Like the star when it shoots, I can dart through the night ; 

I can dance on the torrent and ride on the air, 

And travel the world with the bonny night-mare. 

Again, again, 

At the crook of the glen. 

Where bicker’s the burnie. I’ll meet thee again.” 


The road was now apparently left open ; for the mule 
collected herself, and changed from her posture of terror 
to one which promised advance, although a profuse per- 
spiration, and general trembling of the joints, indicated 
the bodily terror she had undergone. 

“ I used to doubt the existence of Cabalists and Rosi- 
crucians,” thought the Sub-Prior, “ but by my Holy 
Order, I know no longer what to say ! — My pulse beats 
temperately — my hand is cool — I am fasting from every 
thing but sin, and possessed of my ordinary faculties. — 
Either some fiend is permitted to bewilder me, or the 
tales of Cornelius Agrippa, Paracelsus, and others who 
treat of occult philosophy, are not without foundation. — 
At the crook of the glen F I could have desired to avoid 
a second meeting, but I am on the service of the church, 
and the gates of hell shall not prevail against me.” 

He moved forward accordingly, but with precaution, 
and not without fear ; for he neither knew the manner in 
which, or the place where, his journey might be next 
interrupted by his invisible attendant. He descended 
the glen without interruption for about a mile farther, 
when, just at the spot where the brook approached the 
steep hill, with a winding so abrupt as to leave scarcely 
room for a horse to pass, the mule was again visited with 


130 


THE MONASTERY. 


the same symptoms oF terror which had before interrupt- 
ed her course. Better acquainted than before with the 
cause of her restiveness, the Priest employed no effort 
to make her proceed, but addressed himself to the ob- 
ject, which he doubted not was the same that had for- 
merly interrupted him, in the words of solemn exorcism 
prescribed by the church of Rome on such occasions. 

In reply to his demand, the voice again sung ; — 

“ Men of good are bold as sackless,* 

Men of rude are wild and reckless. 

Lie thou still 

In the nook of the hill, 

For those be before thee that wish thee ill.” 

While the Sub-Prior listened, with his head turned in 
the direction from which the sounds seemed to come, 
he felt as if something rushed against him ; and ere he 
could discover the cause, he was pushed from his saddle 
with gentle but irresistible force. Before he reached the 
ground his senses were gone, and he lay long in a state 
of insensibility ; for the sunset had not ceased to gild the 
top of the distant hill when he fell, — and when he again 
became conscious of existence, the pale moon was gleam- 
ing on the landscape. He awakened in a state of ter- 
ror, from which, for a few minutes, he found it difficult 
to shake himself free. At length he sat up on the grass, 
and became sensible, by repeated exertion, that the only 
personal injury which he had sustained was the numb- 
ness arising from extreme cold. The motion of some- 
thing near him made the blood again run to his heart, and 
by a sudden effort he started up, and, looking around, 
saw to his relief that the noise was occasioned by the 
footsteps of his own mule. The peaceable animal had 
remained quietly beside her master during his trance, 
browsing on the grass which grew plentifully in that se- 
questered nook. 


* Sackless — Innocent. 


THE MOXASTETir. 


131 


With soiiie exertion he collected himself, remounted 
the animal, and meditating upon his wild adventure, de- 
scended the glen till its junction with the broader valley 
through which the Tweed winds. The draw-bridge was 
readily dropped at his first summons, and so much had 
he won upon the heart of the churlish warden, that Peter 
appeared himself with a lantern to show the Sub-Prior 
his way over the perilous pass. 

“ By my sooth, sir,” he said, holding the light up to 
Father Eustace’s face ; ‘‘ you look sorely travelled and 
deadly pale — but a little matter serves to weary out you 
men of the cell. 1 now, who speak to you — I have rid- 
den — before I was perched up here on this pillar betwixt 
wind and water — it may be thirty Scots miles before I 
broke my fast, and have had the red of a bramble rose 
in my cheek all the while — But wdll you taste some food, 
or a cup of distilled waters 

I may not,” said Father Eustace, “ being under a 
vow ; but I thank you for your kindness, and pray you 
to give what 1 may not accept to the next poor pilgrim 
who comes hither pale and fainting, for so it shall be the 
better both with him here, and with you hereafter.” 

“ By my faith, and I will do so,” said Peter Bridge- 
Ward, “ even for thy sake — It is strange now, how this 
Sub-Prior gets round one’s heart more than the rest of 
these cowled gentry, that think of nothing but quaffing 
and stuffing — Wife, I say — wife, we will give a cup of 
distilled waters and a crust of bread unto the next pilgrim 
that comes over ; and ye may keep for the purpose the 
grunds of the last grey-beard,* and the ill-baked ban- 
nock which the bairns couldna eat.” 

While Peter issued these charitable, and, at the same 
time, prudent injunctions, the Sub-Prior, whose mild in- 
terference had awaked the Bridge-Ward to such an 
act of unwonted generosity, was pacing onward to the 
Monastery. In the way, he had to commune with and 


An old-fashioned name for an earthen jar for holding spirits. 


133 


THE MOIfASTERT. 


subdue his own rebellious heart, an enemy, he was sen- 
sible, more formidable than any which the external pow- 
ers of Satan could place in his w^ay. 

Father Eustace had indeed strong temptation to sup- 
press the extraordinary incident wdiich had befallen him, 
which he was the more reluctant to confess, because he 
had passed so severe a judgment upon Father Philip, 
who, as he was now not unwilling to allow, had, on his 
return from Glendearg, encountered obstacles somewhat 
similar to his own. Of this the Sub-Prior was the more 
convinced, when, feeling in his bosom for the Book which 
he had brought off from the Tower of Glendearg, he 
found it was amissing, which he could only account for 
by supposing it had been stolen from him during his 
trance. 

“ If I confess this strange visitation,” thought the Sub- 
Prior, “ I become the ridicule of all my brethren — I 
whom the Primate sent hither to be a watch, as it were, 
and a check upon their follies. 1 give the Abbot an ad- 
vantage over me which I shall never again recover, and 
Heaven only knows how he may abuse it, in his foolish 
simplicity, to the dishonour and loss of Holy Kirk. — But 
then, if I make not true confession of my shame, with 
what face can I again presume to admonish or restrain 
others ? — Avow, proud heart,” continued he, addressing 
himself, “ that the weal of Holy Church interests thee 
less in this matter than thine own humiliation — Yes, 
Heaven has punished thee even in that point in which 
thou didst deem thyself most strong, in thy spiritual pride 
and thy carnal wisdom. Thou hast laughed at and derid- 
ed the inexperience of thy brethren — stoop thyself in turn 
to their derision — tell what they may not believe — affirm 
that which they will ascribe to idle fear, or perhaps to 
idle falsehood — sustain the disgrace of a silly visionary, 
or a wilful deceiver. — Be it so ; I will do my duty, and 
make ample confession to my Superior. If the discharge 
of this duty destroys my usefulness in this house, God 
and Our Lady ‘will send me where I can better serve 
them.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


133 


There was no little merit in the resolution thus piously 
and generously formed by Father Eustace. To men of 
any rank the esteem of their order is naturally most 
dear ; but in the monastic establishment, cut off, as the 
brethren are, from other objects of ambition, as well as 
from all exterior friendship and relationship, the place 
which they hold in the opinion of each other is all in all. 

But the consciousness how much he should rejoice the 
Abbot and most of the other Monks of St. Mary’s, who 
were impatient of the unauthorized yet irresistible con- 
trol, which he was wont to exercise in the affairs of the 
convent by a confession which would put him in a ludi- 
crous, or perhaps even in a criminal point of view, could 
not weigh with Father Eustace in comparison with the 
task which his belief enjoined. 

As, strong in his feelings of duty, he approached the 
exterior gate of the Monastery, he was surprised to see 
torches gleaming, and men assembled around it, some on 
horseback, some on foot, while several of the Monks, 
distinguished through the night by their white scapularies, 
were making themselves busy among the crowd. The 
Sub-Prior was received with a unanimous shout of joy, 
which at once made him sensible that he had himself 
been the object of their anxiety. 

“ There he is ! there he is ! God be thanked — there 
he is, hale and fear !” exclaimed the vassals ; while the 
Monks exclaimed “ Te Deum laudamus — the blood of 
thy servants is precious in thy sight !” 

“ What is the matter, children ? what is the matter, my 
brethren said Father Eustace, dismounting at the 
gate. 

“ Nay, brother, if thou know’st not, we will not tell 
thee, till thou art in the refectory,” answered the Monks : 
“ Suffice it that the Lord Abbot had ordered these, our 
zealous and faithful vassals, instantly to set forth to guard 
thee from imminent peril — Ye may ungirth your horses 
children, and dismiss ; and, to-morrow, each who was at 
this rendezvous may send to the convent kitchen for a 
12 VOL. I. 


134 


THE MOXASTEHY. 


quarter of a yard of roast-beef, and a black-jack full of 
double ale.”^^ 

The vassals dispersed with joyful acclamation, and the 
Monks, with equal jubilee, conducted the Sub-Prior into 
the refectory. 


CHAPTER X. 

Here we stand 

Woundless and well, may Heaven's high name be bless'd for'i ! 
As erst, ere treason couch’d a lance against us. 

Decker. 


No sooner was the Sub-Prior hurried into the refec- 
tory by his rejoicing companions, than the first person on 
whom he fixed his eye proved to be Christie of the Clint- 
hill. He was seated in the chimney-corner, fettered and 
guarded, his features drawn into that air of sulky and 
turbid resolution with which those hardened in guilt are 
accustomed to view the approach of punishment. But 
as the Sub-Prior drew near to him, his face assumed a 
more wild and startled expression, while he exclaimed — 
“ The devil ! the devil himself, brings the dead back 
upon the living !” 

“ Nay,” said a monk to him, “ say rather, that Our 
Lady foils the attempts of the wicked on her faithful 
servants — our dear brother lives and moves.” 

“ Lives and moves !” said the ruffian, rising and shuf 
fling towards the Sub-Prior as well as his chains would 
permit ; “ nay, then I will never trust ashen shaft and 
steel point more — It is even so,” he added, as he gazed 
on the Sub-Prior with astonishment ; “ neither wem nor 
wound — not as much as a rent in his frock !” 

“ And whence should my wound have come said 
Father Eustace. 


THE MOXxVSTERY. 


135 


“ From the good lance that never failed me before,” 
replied Christie of the Clint-hill. 

“ Heaven absolve thee for thy purpose !” said the 
Sub-Prior ; “ wouldst thou have slain a servant of the 
altar 

“ To choose !” answered Christie, “ the Fifernen 
say, an the whole pack of ye were slain, there were 
more lost at Flodden.” 

“ Villain ! art thou heretic as well as murderer ?” 

“ Not I, by Saint Giles,” replied the rider ; “ I listened 
blithely enough to the Laird of Monance, when he told 
me ye were all cheats and knaves ; but when he would 
have had me go hear one Wiseheart, a gospeller, as they 
call him, he might as well have persuaded the wild colt 
that had flung one rider to kneel down and help another 
into the saddle.” 

“ There is some goodness about him yet,” said the 
Sacristan to the Abbot, who at that moment entered — 
“ He refused to hear a heretic preacher.” 

“ The better for him in the next world,” answered 
the Abbot. “ Prepare for death, my son — we deliver 
thee over to the secular arm of our Baillie, for execution 
on the Gallow-hill by peep of light.” 

“ Amen !” said the ruffian ; “ ’tis the end I must 
have come by sooner or later — >and what care I whether 
I feed the crows at Saint Mary’s or at Carlisle ?” 

“ Let me implore your reverend patience for an in- 
stant,” said the Sub-Prior ; “ until I shall inquire” 

“ What!” exclaimed the Abbot, observing him for 
the first time — “ Our dear brother restored to us when 
his life was unhoped for ! — nay, kneel not to a sinner like 
me — stand up — thou hast my blessing. When this villain 
came to the gate, accused by his owm evil conscience, and 
crying out he had murdered thee, I thought that the pillar 
of our main aisle had fallen — no more shall a life so pre- 
cious be exposed to such risks, as occur in this Border 
country ; no longer shall one beloved and rescued of 
Heaven hold so low a station in the church, as that of a 


136 


THE MONASTERY. 


poor Sub-Prior — I will write by express to the Primate 
for thy speedy removal and advancement.” 

“ Nay, but let me understand,” said the Sub-Prior ; 
“ did this soldier say that he had slain me 

“ That he had transfixed you,” answered the Abbot, 
‘‘ in full career with his lance — but it seems he had 
taken an indifferent aim. But no sooner didst thou fail 
to the ground mortally gored, as he deemed, with his 
weapon, than our blessed Patroness appeared to him, as 
he averred” 

“ I averred no such thing,” said the prisoner ; “ I 
said a woman in white interrupted me, as I was about 
to examine the priest’s cassock, for they are usually well 
lined — she had a bulrush in her hand, with one touch of 
which she struck me from my horse, as I might strike 
down a child of four years old with an iron mace — and 
then, like a singing fiend as she was, she sung to me, 

‘ Thank the holly-bush 
That nods on thy brow ; 

Or with this slender rush 
I had strangled thee now.' 

I gathered myself up with fear and difficulty, threw my- 
self on my horse, and came hither like a fool to get my- 
self hanged for a rogue.” 

“ Thou seest, honoured brother,” said the Abbot to 
the Sub-Prior, “ in what favour thou art with our blessed 
Patroness, that she herself becomes the guardian of thy 
paths — Not since the days of our blessed founder hath 
she shown such grace to any one. All unworthy were 
we to hold spiritual superiority over thee, and we pray 
thee to prepare for thy speedy removal toAberbrothwick.” 

“ Alas ! my lord and father,” said the Sub-Prior, 
“ your words pierce my very soul. Under the seal of 
confession will 1 presently tell thee why I conceive my- 
self rather the baffled sport of a spirit of another sort, 
than the protected favourite of the heavenly powers. 
But first let me ask this unhappy man a question or two.’ 


THE MOXASTERY. 


137 


Do as ye list,” replied the Abbot — “ but you shall 
not convince me that it is fitting you remain in this infe- 
rior office in the convent of Saint Mary.” 

“ I would ask of this poor man,” said Father Eustace, 
“ for what purpose he nourished the thought of putting 
to death one who never did him evil 

“ Ay ! but thou didst menace me with evil,” said the 
ruffian, ‘‘ and no one but a fool Is menaced twice. Dost 
thou not remember what you said touching the Primate 
and Lord James, and the black pool of Jedwood ? 
Didst thou think me fool enough to wait till thou hadst 
betrayed me to the sack and the fork f There were 
small wisdom in that, methinks — as little as in coming 
hither to tell my own misdeeds — I think the devil was in 
me when I took this road — I might have remembered 
the proverb, ‘ Never Friar forgot feud.’ ” 

‘‘ And it was solely for that — for that only hasty word 
of mine, uttered in a moment of impatience, and forgot- 
ten ere it was well spoken ?” said Father Eustace. 

“ Ay ! for that, and — for the love of thy gold cruci- 
fix,” said Christie of the Clint-hill. 

“ Gracious heaven ! and could the yellow metal — 
the glittering earth — so far overcome every sense of what 
is thereby represented ? — Father Abbot, Ipray as a dear 
boon, you will deliver this guilty person to my mercy.” 

“ Nay, brother,” interposed the Sacristan, “ to your 
doom if you will, not to your mercy — Remember, we arc 
not all equally favoured by our blessed Lady, nor Is it 
likely that every frock in the Convent will serve as a 
coat of proof when a lance is couched against it.” 

“ For that very reason,” said the Sub-Prior, “ I would 
not that for my worthless self the community were to 
fall at feud with Julian of Avenel, this man’s master.” 

“ Our Lady forbid !” said the Sacristan, “ he is a 
second Julian the apostate.” 

“ With our reverend father the Abbot’s permission, then,” 
said Father Eustace, I desire this man may be. freed 
from his chains, and suffered to depart uninjured ; — and 
12 * VOL. I. 


138 


run MOXASTERY. 


here, friend,” he added, giving him the golden crucifix, 
“ is the image for which thou wert willing to stain thy 
hands with murder. View it well, and may it inspire 
thee with other and better thoughts than those which 
referred to it as a piece of bullion. Part with it, never- 
theless, if thy necessities require, and get thee one of 
such coarse substance that mammon shall have no share 
in any of the reflections to which it gives rise. It was 
the bequest of a dear friend to me ; but dearer service 
can it never do than that of winning a soul to heaven.” 

The Borderer, now freed from chains, stood gazing 
alternately on the Sub-Prior, and on the golden crucifix. 
“ By Saint Giles,” said he, “ I understand ye not ! — 
An ye give me gold for couching my lance at thee, what 
would you give me to level it at a heretic .^” 

“ The Church,” said the Sub-Prior, “ will try the 
eflect of her spiritual censures to bring these stray sheep 
into the fold, ere she employ the edge of the sword of 
Saint Peter.” 

“ Ay, but,” said the ruflian, “ they say the Primate 
recommends a little strangling and burning in aid both of 
censure and of sword. But fare ye well, I owe you a 
life, and it may be I will not forget my debt.” 

The Baillie now came bustling in, dressed in his blue 
coat and bandaliers, and attended by two or three halber- 
diers. “ I have been a thought too late in w^aiting upon 
your reverend lordship. I am grown somewhat fatter 
since the field of Pinkie, and my leathern coat slips not 
on so soon as it was wont ; but the dungeon is ready, 

and though, as I said, I have been somewhat late” 

Here his intended prisoner walked gravely up to the 
officer’s nose, to his great amazement. 

“ You have been indeed somewhat late, Baillie,” said 
lie, “ and 1 am greatly obligated to your buff-coat, and 
to the time you took to put in on. If the secular arm 
had, arrived some quarter of an hour sooner,! had been 
out of the reach of spiritual grace ; but as it is, I wish 
you good even, and a safe riddance out of your garment 


THE MONASTERY. 


139 


of durance, in wbicli you have much the air of a hog in 
armour.” 

Wroth was the Baillie with this comparison, and ex- 
claimed in ire — “ An it were not for the presence of the 
venerable Lord Abbot, thou knave” 

“ Nay, an thou would’st try conclusions,” said Chris- 
tie of the Clint-hill, “ I will meet thee at day-break by 
Saint Mary’s well.” 

“Hardened wretch!” said Father Eustace, “art thou 
but this instant delivered from death, and dost thou so 
soon morse thoughts of slaughter .^” 

“ I will meet with thee ere it be long, thou knave,” 
said the Baillie, “ and teach thee thine Oramus.” 

“ 1 wdll meet thy ca-ttle in a moon-light night, before 
that day,” said he of the Clint-hill. 

“ I will have thee by the neck one misty morning, thou 
strong thief,” answered the secular officer of the church. 

“ Thou art thyself as strong a thief as ever rode,” 
retorted Christie ; “ and if the worms were once feasting 
on that fat carcass of thine, 1 might well hope to have 
thine office, by favour of these reverend men.” 

“ A cast of their office, and a cast of mine,” answer- 
ed the Baillie ; “ a cord and a confessor, that is all 
thou wilt have from us.” 

“ Sirs,” said the Sub-Prior, observing that his brethren 
began to take more interest than was exactly decorous in 
this wrangling betwixt justice and iniquity, “ I pray you 
both to depart — Master Baillie, retire with your halber- 
diers, and trouble not the man whom we have dismissed. 
— And thou, Christie, or whatever be thy name, take thy 
departure, and remember thou owest thy life to the 
Lord Abbot’s clemency.” 

“ Nay, as to that,” answered Christie, “ I judge that 
I owe it to your own ; but impute it to whom ye list, I 
owe a life among ye, and there is an end.” And whist- 
ling as he went, he left the apartment, seeming as if he 
hefd the life which he had forfeited not worth farther 
thanks. 


140 


THE ilOXASTEEY. 


‘‘ Obstinate even to brutality !” said Father Eustace ; 
“ and yet who knows but some better ore may lie under 
so rude an exterior 

“ Save a thief from the gallows,’^ said the Sacristan 
— “ you know the rest of the proverb ; and admitting, 
as may Heaven grant, that our lives and limbs are safe 
from this outrageous knave, who shall insure our meal 
and our malt, our herds and our flocks 

“ Marry, that will I, my brethren,” said an aged monk. 

Ah, brethren, you little know what may be made of 
a repentant robber. In Abbot Ingilram’s days — ay, and 
I remember them as it were yesterday — the freebooters 
were the best welcome men that came to Saint Mary’s. 
Ay, they paid tithe of every drove that they brought over 
from the South, and because they were something lightly 
come by, I have known them make the tithe a seventh 
— that is, if their confessor knew his business — ay, when 
we saw from the tower a score of fat bullocks, or a 
drove of sheep coming down the valley, with two or three 
stout men-at-arms behind them, with their glittering steel 
caps, and their black-jacks, and their long lances, the 
good Lord Abbot Ingilram was wont to say — he was a 
merry man — there come the tithes of the spoilers of 
the Egyptians ! Ay, and I have seen the famous John 
the Armstrang, — a fair man he was, and a goodly, the 
more pity that hemp was ever heckled for him — 1 have 
seen him come into the Abbey Church with nine tassells 
of gold in his bonnet, and every tassell made of nine 
English nobles, and he would go from chapel to chapel, 
and from image to image, and from altar to altar, on his 
knees — and leave here a tassell, and there a noble, till 
there was as little gold on his bonnet as on my hood — 
you will find no such Border thieves now !” 

“ No truly. Brother Nicolas,” answered the Abbot ; 
“ they are more apt to take any gold the Church has left, 
than to bequeath or bestow any — and for cattle, beshrew 
me if I think they care whether beeves have fed on the 
meadows of Lanercost Abbey, or of Saint Mary’s!” 


THE MONASTERY. 


141 


“ There is no good thing left in them,” said Father 
Nicolas ; “ they are clean naught — Ah, the thieves that 
I have seen ! — such proper men ! and as pitiful as pro- 
per, and as pious as pitiful !” 

“ It skills not talking of it, brother Nicolas,” said the 
Abbot ; “ and I will now dismiss you, my brethren, hold- 
ing your meeting upon this our inquisition concerning 
the danger of our reverend Sub-Prior, instead of the 
attendance on the lauds this evening — Yet let the bells 
be duly rung for the edification of the laymen without, 
and also that the novices may give due reverence. — And 
now, benedicite, brethren ! The cellarer will bestow on 
each a grace-cup and a morsel as ye pass the buttery, 
for ye have been turmoiled and anxious, and dangerous 
it is to fall asleep in such case with empty stomach.” 

“ Gratias agimus quam maximas^ Domine reverendis- 
simeV^ replied the brethren, departing in their due order. 

But the Sub-Prior remained behind, and falling on his 
knees before the Abbot, as he was about to withdraw, 
craved him to hear under the seal of confession the 
adventures of the day. The reverend Lord Abbot 
yawned, and would have alleged fatigue ; but to Father 
Eustace, of all men, he was ashamed to show indiffer- 
ence in his religious duties. The confession, therefore, 
proceeded, in which Father Eustace told all the extraor- 
dinary circumstances which had befallen him during the 
journey. And being questioned by the Abbot, whether 
he was not conscious of any secret sin, through which he 
might have been subjected for a time to the delusions of 
evil spirits, the Sub-Prior admitted with frank avowal, 
tjiat he thought he might have deserved such penance 
for having judged with unfraternal rigour of the report 
of Father Philip the Sacristan. 

“ Heaven,” said the penitent, “ may have been will- 
ing to convince me, not only that he can at pleasure open 
a communication betwixt us and beings of a different, 
and, as w'e word it, supernatural class, but also to punish 
our pride of superior wisdom, or superior courage, or 
superior learning.” 


142 


THE MONASTERY* 


It is well said that virtue is its own rewa/d ; and I ques- 
tion if duty was ever more completely recompensed, 
than by the audience which the reverend Abbot so un- 
willingly yielded to the confession of the Sub-Prior. To 
find the object of his fear shall -we say, or of his envy, 
or of both, accusing himself of the very error with which 
he had so tacitly charged him, was at once a corrobo- 
ration of the Abbot’s judgment, a soothing of his pride, 
and an allaying of bis fears. The sense of triumph, how- 
ever, rather increased than diminished his natural good 
humour ; and so far was Abbot Boniface from being dis- 
posed to tyrannize over his Sub-Prior, in consequence 
of this discovery, that in his exhortation he hovered 
somewhat ludicrously betwixt the natural expression of 
his own gratified vanity, and his timid reluctance to hurt 
the feelings of Father Eustace. 

“ My brother,” said he, ex cathedra, “ it cannot have 
escaped your judicious observation, that we have often 
declined our own judgment in favour of your opinion, 
even about those matters which most nearly concerned 
the community. Nevertheless, grieved would we be, 
could you think that we did this either because we deem- 
ed our own opinion less pregnant, or ou>’. wit more shal- 
low, than that of our other brethren. For it was done 
exclusively to give our younger brethren, such as your 
much-esteemed self, my dearest brother, that courage 
which is necessary to a free deliverance of your opinion, 
— we ofttimes setting apart our proper judgment, that our 
inferiors, and especially our dear brother the Sub-Prior, 
may be comforted and encouraged in proposing valiantly 
his own thoughts. Which our deference and humility 
may, in some sort, have produced in your mind, most rev- 
erend brother, that self-opinion of parts and knowledge, 
which hath led unfortunately to your over-estimating your 
own faculties, and thereby subjecting yourself, as is but 
too visible, to the japes and mockeries of evil spirits. 
For it is assured that Heaven always holdeth us in the 
least esteem when we deem of ourselves most highly ; 
and also, on the other hand, it may be that we have some- 


THE MONASTERY. 


143 


what departed from what became our high seat in this 
Abbey, in suffering ourselves to be too much guided, and 
even as it were controlled, by the voice of our inferior. 
Wherefore,” continued the Lord Abbot, “ in both of us 
such faults shall and must be amended — you hereafter 
presuming less upon your gifts and carnal wisdom, and 
I taking heed not so easily to relinquish mine own opinion 
for that of one lower in place and in office. Neverthe- 
less, we would not that we should thereby lose the high 
advantage which we have derived, and may yet derive, 
from your wise counsel, which hath been so often re- 
commended to us by our most reverend Primate. 
Wherefore, on affairs of high moment, we will call you 
to our presence in private and listen to your opinion, 
which, if it shall agree with our own, we will deliver to 
the chapter, as emanating directly from ourselves ; thus 
sparing you, dearest brother, that seeming victory which 
is so apt to engender spiritual pride, and avoiding our- 
selves the temptation of falling into that modest facility 
of opinion whereby our office is lessened, and our per- 
son (were that of consequence) rendered less important 
in the eyes of the community, over which we preside.” 

Notwithstanding the high notions which, as a rigid 
Catholic, Father Eustace entertained of the sacrament 
of confession, as his church calls it, there was some 
danger that a sense of the ridiculous might have stolen 
on him, when he heard his Superior, with such simple 
cunning, lay , out a little plan for availing himself of the 
Sub-Prior’s wisdom and experience, while he should take 
the whole credit to himself. Yet his conscience imme- 
diately told him that he was right. 

“ I should have thought more,” he reflected, “ of the 
spiritual Superior, and less of the individual. I should 
have spread my mantle over the frailties of my spiritual 
father, and done what T might to support his character, 
and, of course, to extend his utility among the brethren, 
as well as with others. The Abbot cannot be humbled, 
but what the community must be humbled in his person. 
Her boast is, that over all her children, especially over 


144 


THE MONASTERY. 


those called to places of distinction, she can diffuse thost.* 
gifts which are necessary to render them illustrious.” 

Actuated by these sentiments, Father Eustace frankly 
assented to the charge which his Superior, even in that 
moment of authority, had rather intimated than made, 
and signified his humble acquiesence in any mode of 
communicating his counsel which might be most agree- 
able to the Lord Abbot, and might best remove from 
himself all temptation to glory in his own wisdom. He 
then prayed the reverend father to assign him such pen- 
ance as might best suit his offence, intimating at the same 
time, that he had already fasted the whole day. 

“ And it is that I complain of,” answered the Abbot, 
instead of giving him credit for his abstinence ; “ it is 
these very penances,fasts,and vigils, of which we com- 
plain ; as tending only to generate air and fumes of van- 
ity, which ascending from the stomach into the head, do 
but puff us up with vain-glory and self-opinion. It is 
meet and beseeming that novices should undergo firsts 
and vigils ; for some part of every community must fast, 
and young stomachs may best endure it. Besides, in 
them it abates wicked thoughts, and the desire of world- 
ly delights. But, reverend brother, for those to fast who 
are dead and mortified to the world, as I and thou, is 
work of supererogation, and is but the matter of spiritu- 
al pride. Wherefore, I enjoin thee, most reverend 
brother, go to the buttery, and drink two cups at least of 
good wine, eating withal a comfortable morsel, such as 
may best suit thy taste and stomach. And in respect 
that thine opinion of thy own wisdom hath at times made 
thee less conformable to, and companionable with, th 
weaker and less learned brethren, I enjoin thee, during 
the said repast, to choose for thy companion, our reverend 
bcother Nicolas, and, without interruption or impatience, 
to listen for a stricken hour to his narration, concerning 
those things which befel in the times of our venerable 
predecessor. Abbot Ingilram, on whose soul may Heaven 
have mercy ! And for such holy exercises as may fur- 
ther advantage your soul, and expiate the faults whereof 


THE MONASTERY. 


145 


you Iiave contritely and humbly avowed yourself guilty, 
we wiW ponder upon that matter, and announce our will 
unto you the next morning.” 

It was remarkable, that after this memorable evening, 
the feelings of the worthy Abbot towards bis adviser were 
much more kindly and friendly than when he deemed 
the Sub-Prior the impeccable and infallible person, in 
whose garment of virtue and wisdom no flaw was to be 
discerned. It seemed as if this avowal of his own im- 
perfections had recommended Father Eustace to the 
friendship of the Superior, although at the same time 
this increase of benevolence was attended with some cir- 
cumstances, which, to a man of the Sub-Prior’s natural 
elevation of mind and temper, were more grievous than 
even undergoing the legends of the dull and verbose 
Father Nicolas. For instance, the Abbot seldom men- 
tioned him to the other monks, without designing him 
our beloved Brother Eustace, poor man ! — and now and 
then he used to warn the younger brethren against the 
snares of vain-glory and spiritual pride, which Satan sets 
for the more rigidly righteous, with such looks and dem- 
onstrations as did all but expressly designate the Sub- 
Prior as one who had fallen at one time under such de- 
lusions. Upon these occasions, it required all the votive 
obedience of a monk, all the philosophical discipline of 
the schools, and all the patience of a Christian, to enable 
Father Eustace to endure the pompous and patronizing 
parade of his honest, but somewhat thick-headed Supe- 
rior. He began himself to be desirous of leaving the 
Monastery, or at least he manifestly declined to interfere 
with its affairs, in that marked and authoritative manner, 
which he had at first practised. 


13 VOL. I. 


MG 


THE MONASTERY. 


CHAPTER XI. 

You call this education, do you not ? 

Why.’tis the forced march of a herd of bullocks 
Before a shouting drover. The glad van 
Move on at ease, and pause a while to snatch 
A passing morsel from the dewy green-sward j 
While all the blows, the oaths, the indignation, 

Fall on the croupe of the ill-fated laggard 
That cripples in the rear. 

Old Play. 

Two or three years glided on, during which the storm 
the approaching alteration in church government be- 
came each day louder and more perilous. Owing to the 
circumstances which we have intimated in the end of the 
last chapter, the Sub-Prior Eustace appeared to have al- 
tered considerably his habits of life. He afforded, on all 
extraordinary occasions, to the Abbot, whether privately, 
or in the assembled chapter, the support of his wisdom 
and experience ; but in his ordinary habits he seemed 
now to live more for himself, and less for the community, 
than had been his former practice. 

He often absented himself for whole days from the 
convent ; and as the adventure of Glendearg dwelt deep- 
ly on his memory, he was repeatedly induced to visit that 
lonely tower, and to take an interest in the orphans who 
had their shelter under its roof. Besides, he felt a deep 
anxiety to know whether the volume which he had lost, 
when so strangely preserved from the lance of the mur- 
derer, had again found its way back to the tower of 
Glendearg. “ It was strange,” he thought, “ that a 
spirit,” for such he could not help judging the being 
whose voice he had heard, should, on the one side, 
seek the advancement of heresy, and on the other, inter- 
pose to save the life of a zealous Catholic priest.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


147 


But from no inquiry which he made of the various in- 
habitants of the Tower of Glendearg could he learn that 
the copy of the translated Scriptures, for which he made 
such diligent inquiry, had again been seen by any of 
them. 

In the meanwhile the good father’s occasional visits 
were of no small consequence to Edward Glendinning 
and to Mary Avenel. The former displayed a power of 
apprehending and retaining whatever was taught him, 
which filled Father Eustace with admiration. He was 
at once acute and industrious, alert and accurate ; one 
of those rare combinations of talent and industry, which 
are seldom united. 

It was the earnest desire of Father Eustace that the 
excellent qualities thus early displayed by Edward should 
be dedicated to the service of the church, to which he 
thought the youth’s own consent might be easily obtained, 
as he was of a calm, contemplative, retired habit, and 
seemed to consider knowledge as the principal object, 
and its enlargement as the greatest pleasure in life. As 
to the mother, the Sub-Prior had little doubt that, train- 
ed as she w^as to view the monks of Saint Mary’s with 
such profound reverence, she would be but too happy in 
an opportunity of enrolling one of her sons in its honour- 
ed community. But the good Father proved to be mis- 
taken in both these particulars. 

When he spoke to Elspeth Glendinning of that which 
a mother best loves to hear — the proficiency and abilities 
of her son — she listened with a delighted ear. But when 
Father Eustace hinted at the duty of dedicating to the 
service of the church, talents which seemed fitted to 
defend and adorn it, the dame endeavoured always to 
shift the subject ; and when pressed farther, enlarged on 
her own incapacity, as a lone woman, to manage the 
feu ; on the advantage which her neighbours of the 
township were often taking of her unprotected state, and 
on the wish she had that Edward might fill his father’s 
place, remain in the tower, and close her eyes. 


. IAS 


THE MO^fASTERY. 


On such occasions the Sub-Prior would answer, that 
even in a worldly point of view the welfare of the family 
would be best consulted by one of the sons entering into 
the community of St. Mary’s, as it was not to be sup- 
posed that he would fail to afford his family the import- 
ant protection which he could then easily extend towards 
them. What could be a more pleasing prospect than to 
see him high in honour ? or what more sweet than to 
have the last duties rendered to her by a son, revered 
for his holiness of life and exemplary manners ? Be- 
sides, he endeavoured to impress upon the dame that 
her eldest son. Halbert, whose bold temper and head- 
strong indulgence of a wandering humour, rendered him 
incapable of learning, was for that reason, as well as that 
he was her eldest born, fittest to bustle through the affairs 
of the world, and manage the little fief. 

Elspeth durst not directly dissent from what was pro- 
posed, for fear of giving displeasure, and yet she always 
had something to say against it. Halbert, she said, was 
not like any of the neighbour boys — he was taller by the 
head, and stronger by the half, than any boy of his years 
within the Halidome. But he w'as fit for no peaceful 
work that could be devised. If he liked a book ill, he 
liked a plough or a pattle worse. He had scoured his 
father’s old broad-sword — suspended it by a belt round 
his waist, and seldom stirred without it. He was a sweet 
boy and a gentle if spoken fair, bijt cross him 
and he was a born devil. “ In a word,” she said, 
bursting into tears, “ deprive me of Edward, good fath- 
er, and ye bereave my house of prop and pillar ; for mv 
heart tells me that Halbert will take to his father’s gates, 
and die his father’s death.” 

When the conversation came to this crisis, the good-hu- 
moured Monk was always content to drop the discussion 
for the time, trusting some opportunity would occur of 
removing her prejudices, for such he thought them, 
against Edward’s proposed destination. 

When leaving the mother, the Sub-Prior addressed 
himself to the son, animating his zeal for knowledge, and 


THE MONASTERY. 


149 


pointing out how amply it might be gratified should he 
3gree to take holy orders, he found the same repugnance 
which dame Elspeth had exhibited. Edward pleaded a 
want of sufficient vocation to so serious a profession — his 
reluctance to leave his mother, and other objections, 
which the Sub-Prior treated as evasive. 

“ I plainly perceive,” he said one day, in answer to 
them, “ that the devil has his factors as well as Heaven, 
and that they are equally, or alas ! the former are per- 
haps more active, in bespeaking for their master the first 
of the market. I trust, young man, that neither idleness, 
nor licentious pleasure, nor the love of worldly gain and 
worldly grandeur, the chief baits with which the great 
fisher of souls conceals his hook, are the causes of your 
declining the career to which I would incite you. But 
above all I trust — above all I hope — that the vanity of 
superior knowledge — a sin with which those who have 
made proficiency in learning are most frequently beset 
— has not led you into the awful hazard of listening to 
the dangerous doctrines which are now afloat concerning 
religion. Better for you that you were as grossly igno- 
rant as the beasts which perish, than that the pride of 
knowledge should induce you to lend an ear to the voice 
of the heretics.” Edward Glendinning listened to the 
rebuke with a downcast look, and failed not when it w^as 
concluded, earnestly to vindicate himself from the charge 
of having pjished his studies into any subjects which the 
Church inhibited ; and so the Monk was left to form 
vain conjectures respecting the cause of his reluctance 
to embrace the monastic state. 

It is an old proverb, used by Chaucer, and quoted by 
Elizabeth, that “ the greatest clerks are not the wisest 
men ;” and it is as true as if the poet had not rhimed, 
or the queen reasoned on it. If Father Eustace had 
not had his thoughts turned so much to the progress oi 
heresy, and so little to what was passing in the tow- 
er, he might have read, in the speaking eyes of Mary 
Avenel, now a girl of fourteen or fifteen, reasons which 
13 * VOL. I. 


160 


THE MONASTERY. 


might disincline her youthful companion towards the 
monastic vows. I have said, that she also was a prom- 
ising pupil of the good father, upon whom her innocent 
and infantine beauty had an effect of which he was him- 
self, perhaps unconscious. Her rank and expectations 
entitled her to be taught the arts of reading and writing ; 
— and each lesson which the Monk assigned her, was 
conned over in company with Edward, and by him ex- 
plained and re-explained, and again illustrated, until she 
became perfectly mistress of it. 

In the beginning of their studies. Halbert had been 
their school companion. But the boldness and impa- 
tience of his disposition soon quarrelled with an occupa- 
tion, in which, without assiduity and unremitted atten- 
tion, no progress was to be expected. The Sub-Prior’s 
visits were at irregular intervals, and often weeks would 
intervene between them, in wdiich case Halbert was sure 
to forget all that had been prescribed for him to learn, 
and much which he had partly acquired before. His 
debciencies on these occasions gave him pain, but it was 
not of that sort which produces amendment. 

For a time, like all who are fond of idleness, he en- 
deavoured to detach the attention of his brother and 
Mary Avenel from their task, rather than to learn his 
own, and such dialogues as the following would ensue: — 

“ Take your bonnet, Edward, and make haste — the 
Laird of Colmslie is at the head of the glen with 
his hounds.” 

“ I care not. Halbert,” answered the younger brother ; 
“ two brace of dogs may kill a deer without my being 
there to see them, and I must help Mary Avenel with her 
lesson.” 

“ Ay ! you will labour at the Monk’s lessons till you 
turn monk yourself,” answered Halbert. — “ Mary, wdll 
you go with me, and I will show you the cushat’s nest I 
told you of 

“ 1 cannot go with you. Halbert answered Mary, 

because I must study this lesson — it will take me long 


THE MCNASTEEcY. 


151 


to learn it — I am sorry I am so dull, for if I could get my 
task as fast as Edward, I should like to go with you.” 

“ Should you, indeed said Halbert ; “ then I will 
wait for you — and, what is more, I will try to get my 
lesson also.” 

With a smile and a sigh he took up the primer, and 
began heavily to con over the task which had been as- 
signed him. As if banished from the society of the two 
others, he sat sad and solitary in one of the deep win- 
dow-recesses, and after in vain struggling with the diffi- 
culties of his task, and his disinclination to learn it, he 
found himself involuntarily engaged in watching the 
movements of the other two students, instead of toiling 
any longer. 

The picture which Halbert looked upon was delightful 
in itself, but somehow or other, it afforded very little 
pleasure to him. The beautiful girl, with looks of sim- 
ple, yet earnest anxiety, was bent on disentangling those 
intricacies which obstructed her progress to knowledge, 
and looking ever and anon to Edward for assistance, 
while, seated close by her side, and watchful to remove 
every obstacle from her way, he seemed at once to be 
proud of the progress which his pupil made, and of the 
assistance which he was able to render her. There was 
a bond betwixt them, a strong and interesting tie, the 
desire of obtaining knowledge, the pride of surmounting 
difficulties. 

Feeling most acutely, yet ignorant of the nature and 
source of his own emotions. Halbert could no longer 
endure to look upon this quiet scene, but, starting up, 
dashed his book from him, and exclaimed aloud, — “ To 
the fiend I bequeath all books, and the dreamers that 
make them ! — I would a score of Southrons would come 
up the glen, and we should learn how little all this mut- 
tering and scribbling is worth.” 

Mary Avenel and his brother started, and looked at 
Halbert with surprise, while he went on with great ani- 
mation, his features swelling, and the tears starting into 
his eyes as he spoke. — “ Yes, Mary — I wish a score ol 


152 


THE MONASTERY. 


Southrons came up the glen this very day ; and you 
should see one good hand, and one good sword, do more 
to protect you than all the books that were ever opened, 
and all the pens that ever grew on a goose’s wing.” 

Mary looked a little surprised and a little frightened 
at his vehemence, but instantly replied affectionately, 
“ You are vexed. Halbert, because you do not get your 
lesson so fast as Edward can ; and so am I, for I am as 
stupid as you — But come, and Edward shall sit betwixt 
us and teach us.” 

“ He shall not teach me,” said Halbert, in the same 
angry mood ; “ I never can teach him to do any thing 
that is honourable and manly, and he shall not teach me 
any of his monkish tricks. — I hate the monks, with their 
drawling nasal tone like so many frogs, and their long 
black petticoats like so many women, and their reveren- 
ces, and their lordships, and their lazy vassals, that do 
nothing but paddle in the mire with plough and harrow, 
from Yule to Michaelmas. I will call none lord, but 
him who wears a sword to make his title good ; and I 
will call none man, but he that can bear himself manlike 
and masterful.” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, peace, brother!” said Edward ; 
“ if such words were taken up and reported out of the 
house, they would be our mother’s ruin.” 

“ Report them yourself then, and they will be your 
making, and nobody’s marring save mine own. Say, that 
Halbert Glendinning will never be vassal to an old man 
with a cowl and shaven crown, while there are twenty 
barons who wear casque and plume that lack bold follow- 
ers. Let them grant you these wretched acres, and 
much meal may they bear you to make your brochan.''^ 
He left the room hastily, but instantly returned, and con- 
tinued to speak with the same tone of quick and irritated 
feeling. “ And you need not think so much, neither of 
you, and especially you, Edward, need not think so 
much of your parchment book there, and your cunning 
in reading it. By my faith I will soon learn to read as 
well as you ; and — for I know a better teacher than your 


THE MONASTERY. 


153 


grim old monk, and a better book than his printed bre- 
viary ; and since you like scholar-craft so well, Mary 
Avenel, you shall see whether Edward or I have most of 
it.” He left the apartment and came not again. 

“ What can be the matter with him said Mary, 
following Halbert with her eyes from the window, as with 
hasty and unequal steps he ran up the wild glen. — 
“ Where can your brother be going, Edward F — what 
book — what teacher does he talk of 

“ It avails not guessing,” said Edward. “ Halbert is 
angry, he knows not why, and speaks of he knows not 
what ; let us go again to our lessons, and he will come 
home when he has tired himself with scrambling among 
the crags as usual.” 

But Mary’s anxiety on account of Halbert seemed 
more deeply rooted. She declined prosecuting the task 
in which they had been so pleasingly engaged, under the 
excuse of a headach ; nor could Edward prevail upon 
her to resume it again that morning. 

Meanwhile Halbert, his head unbonnetted, his features 
swelled with jealous anger, and the tear still in his eye, 
sped up the wild and upper extremity of the little valley 
of Glendearg with the speed of a roe-buck, choosing, as 
if in desperate defiance of the difficulties of the way, 
the wildest and most dangerous paths, and voluntarily 
exposing himself a hundred times to dangers which he 
might have escaped by turning a little aside from them. 
It seemed as if he wished his course to be as straight 
as that of the arrow to its mark. 

He arrived at length in a narrow and secluded clench^ 
or deep ravine, which ran down into the valley, and con- 
iributed a scanty rivulet to the supply of the brook with 
which Glendearg is watered. Up this he sped with the 
same precipitate haste which had marked his departure 
from the tower; nor did he pause and look around, until 
he had reached the fountain from which the rivulet had 
its rise. 

Here Halbert stopped short, and cast a gloomy, and 
almost a frightened glance around him. A huge rock 


154 


THE MONASTERY. 


rose in front, from a cleft of which grew a wild holly-tree, 
whose dark green branches rustled over the spring which 
arose beneath. The banks on either hand rose so high, 
and approached each other so closely, that it was only 
when the sun was at its meridian height, and during the 
summer solstice, that its rays could reach the bottom of 
the chasm in which he stood. But it was now sum- 
mer, and the hour was noon, so that the unwonted re- 
flection of the sun was dancing in the pellucid fountain. 

“ It is the season and the hour,” said Halbert to him- 
self ; “ and now I 1 might soon become wiser than 

Edward with all his pains ! Mary should see whether 
he alone is fit to be consulted, and to sit by her side, and 
hang over her as she reads, and point out every word and 
every letter. And she loves me better than him — I am 
sure she does — for she comes of noble blood, and scorns 
sloth and cowardice. — And do I myself not stand here 
slothful and cowardly as any priest of them all ? — Why 
should I fear to call upon this form — this shape ? Already 
have I endured the vision, and why not again ? — What 
can it do to me who am a man of lith and limb, and have 
by my side my father’s sword ? Does my heart beat — 
do my hairs bristle, at the thought of calling up a paint- 
ed shadow, and how should I face a band of Southrons 
in flesh and blood ? By the soul of the first Glendinning 
I will make proof of the charm !” 

He cast the leathern brogue or buskin from his right 
foot, planted himself in a firm posture, unsheathed his 
sword, and first looking around to collect his resolution, 
he bowed three times deliberately towards the holly-tree, 
and as often to the little fountain, repeating at the same 
time, with a determined voice, the following rhyme : 

‘‘ Thrice to the holly brake — 

Thrice to the well ; — 

1 bid thee awake, 

White Maid of Avenel ! 

“ Noon gleams on the I.ake — 

Noon glows on the Fell — 


THE MONASTERY. 


155 


Wake thee, O wake, 

White Maid of Avenel !” 

These lines were hardly uttered, when there stood the 
' figure of a female clothed in white, within three steps 
of Halbert Glendinning. 

j ** I guess ’twas frightful there to see 

< A lady richly clad as she — 

Beautiful exceedingly.”* 


CHAPTER XII. 

There’s something in that ancient superstition, 

Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves. 

The spring that, with its thousand crystal bubbles, 

Bursts from the bosom of some desert rock 
In secret solitude, may well be deem’d 
The haunt of something purer, more refin’d. 

And mightier than ourselves. 

Old Play. 

Young Halbert Glendinning had scarcely pronounced 
the mystical rhymes, when, as we have mentioned in the 
conclusion of the last chapter, an appearance, as of a 
beautiful female, dressed in white, stood within two yards 
of him. His terror for the moment overcame his nat- 
ural courage, as well as the strong resolution which he 
had formed, that the figure which he had now twice seen 
should not a third time, daunt him. But it would seem 
there is something thrilling and abhorrent to flesh and 
blood, in the consciousness that we stand in presence of 
a being in form like to ourselves, but so difierent in fac- 
ulties and nature, that we can neither understand its 
ourposes, nor calculate its means of pursuing them. 


Coleridge’s Christabelle. 


156 


THE MONASTERY' 


Halbert stood silent and gasped for breath, his hairs 
erecting themselves on his head — his mouth open — his 
eyes fixed — and, as the sole remaining sign of his late 
determined purpose, his sword pointed towards the ap- 
parition. At length,'with a voice of ineffable sweetness, 
the White Lady, for by that name we shall distinguish 
this being, sung, or rather chanted, the following lines : — 

Youth of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me ? 

Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee ? 

He that seeks to deal with us must know' nor fear nor failing ! 

To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing. 

The breeze that brought me hither now, must sweep Egyptian grouiKl, 
The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound ; 

The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze sighs for my stay, 

For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day.” 

The astonishment of Halbert began once more to give 
way to his resolution, and he gained voice enough to say, 
though with a faltering accent, “ In the name of God, 
what art thou The answer was in melody of a dif- 
ferent tone and measure: — 

What I am I must not show — 

What I am thou couldst not know — 

Something betwixt heaven and hell— ^ 

Something that neither stood nor fell — ' • ' 

Something that through thy wit or will 
May work thee good — may work thee ill. 

Neither substance quite, nor shadow. 

Haunting lonely moor and meadow, 

Dancing by the haunted spring. 

Riding on the whirlw'ind's wing ; 

Aping in fantastic fashion 
Every change of human passion. 

While o’er our frozen minds they pass, 

Like shadows from the mirror’d glass. 

Wayward, fickle is our mood. 

Hovering betwixt bad and good, ' ^ 

Happier than brief-dated man, * y.rlfii.A 

Living twenty times his span ; 

Far less happy, for we have 
Help nor hope beyond the grave ! 


THE MONASTERY. 


157 


Man awakes to joy or sorrow ; 

Our’s the sleep that knows no morrow. 

This is all that 1 can show — 

This is all that thou may'st know.” 

The White Lady paused, and appeared to await an an- 
swer 5 but, as Halbert hesitated how to frame his speech, 
the vision seemed gradually to fade, and become more 
and more incorporeal. Justly guessing this to be a symp- 
tom of her disappearance. Halbert compelled himself to 
say? “ Lady, when I saw you in the glen, and when 
you brought back the black book of Mary of Avenel, 
thou didst say I should one day learn to read it.” 

The White Lady replied, 

* Ay ! and I taught thee the word and the spell, 

To waken me here by the Fairies’ Well. 

But thou hast loved the heron and hawk, 

More than to seek my haunted walk ; 

And thou hast loved the lance and the sword, 

More than good text and holy word ; 

And thou hast loved the deer to track, 

More than the lines and the letters black ; 

And thou art a ranger of moss and of wood. 

And scornest the nurture of gentle blood !” 

“ I will do so no longer, fair maiden,” said Halbert ; 
“ I desire to learn ; and thou didst promise me, that 
when I did so desire, thou wouldst be my helper ; I am 
no longer afraid of thy presence, and I am no longer 
regardless of instruction.” As he uttered these words, 
the figure of the White Maiden grew gradually as distinct 
as it had been at first ; and what had well nigh faded 
into an ill-defined and colourless shadow, again assumed 
an appearance at least of corporeal consistency, although 
the hues were less vivid, and the outline of the figure 
less distinct and defined, — so at least it seemed to Hal- 
bert, — than those of an ordinary inhabitant of the earth. 

“ Wilt thou grant my request,” he said, “ fair Lady, and 
give to my keeping the holy book which Mary of Ave- 
nel has so often wept for ?” 

14 VOL. I. 


158 


THE MONASTERY, 


/ ^ 

The White Lady replied ; 

Thy craven fear my truth accused, 

Thine idlehood my trust abused ; 

He that draws to harbour late, 

Must sleep without, or burst the gate. 

There is a star for thee which burned. 

Its influence wanes, its course is turned j 

Valour and constancy alone 

Can bring thee back the chance that's flown." 

“ If I have been a loiterer, Lady,” answered young 
Glendinning, “ thou shalt now find me willing to press 
forward with double speed. Other thoughts have filled 
my mind, other thoughts have engaged my heart within 
a brief period — and by heaven, other occupations shall 
henceforward fill up my time. I have lived in this day 
the space of years — I came hither a boy — 1 will return 
a man — a man, such as may converse not' only with his 
own kind, but with whatever God permits to be visible 
to him. I will learn the contents of that mysterious vol- 
ume — I will learn why the Lady of Avenel loved it — 
why the priests feared, and would have stolen it — why 
thou didst twice recover it from their hands. — What 
mystery is wrapt in it — Speak, I conjure thee!” The 
Lady assumed an air peculiarly sad and solemn, as, 
drooping her head, and folding her arms on her bosom, 
she replied : 


’ " Within that awful volume lies 

The mystery of mysteries ! 

Happiest they of human race. 

To whom God has granted grace 
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray, 

'J'o lift the latch, and force the way ; 

And better had they ne’er been born. 

Who read to doubt, or read to scorn." 

Give me the volume. Lady,” said young Glen- 
dinning. “ They call me idle — they call me dull — in 


THE MONASTERY. 


159 


this pursuit my industry shall not fail ; nor with God’s 
blessing, shall my understanding. Give me the volume.” 
The apparition again replied : 


“ Many a fathom dark and deep, 

I have laid the book to sleep ; 

Ethereal fires around it glowing — 

Ethereal music ever flowing — 

The sacred pledge of Heaven 
All things revere, 

Each in his sphere, 

Save man for whom 'twas given: 

Lend thy hand, and thou shalt spy 
Things ne’er seen by mortal eye.” 

Halhert Glendinning boldly reached his hand to tlie 
White Lady. 

“ Fearest thou to go with me ?” she said, as his hand 
trembled at the soft and cold touch of her own — 

Fearest thou to go with me ? 

Still it is free to thee 
A peasant to dwell ; 

Thou may’st drive the dull steer, 

And chase the king’s deer. 

But never more come near 
This haunted well.” 

“ If what thou sayest be true,” said the undaunted 
boy, “ my destinies are higher than thine own. There 
shall be neither well nor wood which I dare not visit. 
No fear of aught, natural or supernatural, shall bar my 
path through my native valley.” 

He had scarce uttered the words when they both de- 
scended through the earth, with a rapidity which took 
away Halbert’s breath and every other sensation, saving 
that of being hurried on with the utmost velocity. At 
length they stopped with a shock so sudden, that the 
mortal journeyer through this unknown space must have 
been thrown down with violence, had he not been up- 
held by nis supernatural companion. 


160 


THE MOXASTERY. 


It was more than a minute, ere, looking around hin*. 
he beheld a grotto, or natural cavern, composed of the 
most splendid ’spars and crystals, which returned in a 
thousand prismatic hues the light of a brilliant flame that 
glowed on an altar of alabaster. This altar, with its fire, 
formed the central point of the grotto, which was of a 
round form, and very high in the roof, resembling in 
some respects the dome of a cathedral. Corresponding 
to the four points of the compass, there went olF four 
long galleries or arcades, constructed of the same bril- 
liant materials with the dome itself, and the termination 
of which was lost in darkness. 

No human imagination can conceive, or words suffice 
to describe, the glorious radiance, which, shot fiercely 
forth by the flame, was returned from so many hundred 
thousand points of reflection, afforded by the sparry pil- 
lars and their numerous angular crystals. The fire itself 
did not remain steady and unmoved, but rose and fell, 
sometimes ascending in a brilliant pyramid of condensed 
flame half way up the lofty expanse, and again fading 
into a softer and more rosy hue, and hovering as it were 
on the surface of the altar to collect its strength for anoth- 
er powerful exertion. There was no visible fuel by which 
it was fed, nor did it emit either smoke or vapour of any 
kind. 

What was of all the most remarkable, the black volume 
so often mentioned lay not only unconsurned, but un- 
touched in the slightest degree amid this intensity of fire, 
which, while it seemed to be of force sufficient to melt 
adamant, bad no effect whatever on the sacred book, 
thus subjected to its utmost influence. 

The White Lady, having paused long enough to let 
young Glendinning take a complete survey of what was 
around him, now said, in her usual chant, 

“ Here lies the volume thou boldly hast sought ; 

Touch it, and take it, '-’twill dearly be bought.” 


THE MOIfASTERY. 


161 


Familiarized in some degree with marvels, and des- 
perately desirous of showing the courage he had boasted, 
Halbert plunged his hand, without hesitation, into the 
flame, trusting to the rapidity of the motion to snatch out 
the volume before the fire could greatly affect him. But 
he was much disappointed. The flame instantly caught 
upon his sleeve, and though he withdrew his hand im- 
mediately, yet his arm was so dreadfully scorched, that 
he had well nigh screamed with pain. He suppressed 
the natural expression of anguish, however, and only 
intimated the agony which he felt by a contortion and a 
muttered groan. The White Lady passed her cold 
hand over his arm, and, ere she had finished the follow- 
ing metrical chant, his pain had entirely gone, and no 
mark of the scorching was visible : 

Rash ihj deed, 

Mortal weed 

To immortal flames applying ; 

Rasher trust 
Has thing of dust, 

On his own weak worth relying : 

Strip thee of such fences vain. 

Strip, and prove thy luck again/' 

Obedient to what he understood to be the meaning 
of his conductress. Halbert bared his arm to the shoul- 
der, throwing down the remains of his sleeve, w'hich no 
sooner touched the floor on which he stood than it col- 
lected itself together, shrivelled itself up, and was with- 
out any visible fire reduced to light tinder, which a sud- 
den breath of wind dispersed into empty space. The 
White Lady, observing the surprise of the youth, imme- 
diately repeated — 

“ Mortal warp and mortal woof, 

** Cannot brook this charmed roof ; 

All that mortal art hath wrought. 

In our cell returns to nought. 

The molten gold returns to clay, 

14 * VOL. I. 


162 


THE MONASTERY. 


The polishM diamond melts away ; 

All is altered, all is flown, 

Nought stands fast but truth alone, 

Not for that thy quest give o’er: 

Courage ! prove ihy chance once more.” 

Emboldened by her words, Halbert Glendinning made 
a second effort, and plunging his bare arm into the flame, 
took out the sacred volume without feeling either heat or 
inconvenience of any kind. Astonished, and almost 
terrified at his own success, he beheld the flame collect 
itself, and shoot up into one long and final stream, which 
seemed as if it would ascend to the very roof of the 
cavern, and then sinking as suddenly, became totally ex- 
tinguished. The deepest darkness ensued ; but Hal- 
bert had no time to consider his situation, for the White 
Lady had already caught his hand, and they ascended 
to upper air with the same velocity with which they had 
sunk into the earth. 

They stood by the fountain in the Corrinan-shian when 
they emerged from the bowels of the earth, but on 
casting a bewildered glance around him, the youth was 
surprised to observe, that the shadows had fallen far to 
the east, and that the day was well nigh spent. He gaz- 
ed on his conductress for explanation, but her figure be- 
gan to fade before his eyes — her cheeks grew paler, her 
features less distinct, her form became shadowy, and 
blended itself with the mist which was ascending the 
hollow ravine. What had late the symmetry of form, 
and the delicate, yet clear hues of feminine beauty, now 
resembled the flitting and pale ghost of some maiden 
who had died for love, as it is seen indistinctly and by 
moon-light, by her perjured lover. 

“ Stay, spirit !” said the youth, emboldened by his suc- 
cess in the subterranean dome, “ thy kindness must not 
leave me, as one encumbered with a weapon he knows 
not how to wield. Thou must teach me the art to read, 
and to understand this volume; else what avails it me 
that I possess it 


THE MOXASTERY. 


163 


ut the figure of the White Lady still waned before 
his eye, until it became an outline as pale and indistinct 
as that of the moon, when the winter morning is far ad- 
vanced ; and ere she had ended the following chant, she 
was entirely invisible : — 


“ Alas ! alas ! 

Not ours the grace 

These holy characters to trace ; 

Idle forms of painted air, 

Not to us is given to share 
The boon bestow’d on Adam’s race ! 

With patience bide, 

Heaven will provide, 

The fitting time, the fitting guide. 

The form was already gone, and now the voice itself 
had melted away in melancholy cadence, softening, as 
if the being who spoke had been slowly wafted from the 
spot where she had commenced her melody. It was at 
this moment that Halbert felt the extremity of the terror 
which he had hitherto so manfully suppressed. The 
very necessity of exertion had given him spirit to make 
it, and the presence of the mysterious being, while it was 
a subject of fear in itself, had nevertheless given him the 
sense of protection being near to him. It was when he 
could reflect with composure on what had passed, that a 
cold tremor shot across his limbs, his hair bristled, and 
he was afraid to look around lest he should find at his 
elbow something more frightful than the first vision. A 
breeze arising suddenly realized the beautiful and wild 
idea of the most imaginative of our modern bards* — 


It fann’d his cheek, it raised his hair 
Like a meadow gale in spring ; 

It mingled strangely with his fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 


Coleridge. 


164 


THE MOJfASTERY. 


The youth stood silent and astonished for a few min- 
utes. It seemed to him that the extraordinary being he 
had seen, half his terror, half his protectress, was still 
hovering on the gale which swept past him, and that she 
might again make herself sensible to his organs of sight. 
‘‘ Speak !” he said, wildly tossing his arms, “ speak yet 
again — be once more present, lovely visionl— thrice have 
I now seen thee, yet the idea of thy invisible presence 
around or beside me, makes my heart beat faster than if 
the earth yawned and gave up a demon.” But neither 
sound nor appearance indicated . the presence of the White 
Lady, and nothing preternatural beyond what he had al- 
ready witnessed, was again audible or visible. Halbert, 
in the meanwhile, by the very exertion of again inviting 
the presence of this mysterious being, had recovered his 
natural audacity. He looked around once more, and 
resumed his solitary path down the valley into whose 
recesses he had penetrated. 

Nothing could be more strongly contrasted than the 
storm of passion with which he had bounded over stock 
and crag, in order to plunge himself into the Corrinan- 
shian, and the sobered mood in which he now returned 
homeward, industriously seeking out the most practicable 
path, not from a wish to avoid danger, but that he might 
not by personal toil distract his attention, deeply fixed 
on the extraordinary scene which he had witnessed. In 
the former case, he had sought by hazard and bodily ex- 
ertion to indulge at once the fiery excitation of passion, 
and to banish the cause of the excitement from his recol- 
lection; while now he studiously avoided all interruption 
to his contemplative walk, lest the difficulty of the way 
should interfere with, or disturb his own deep reflections. 
Thus slowly pacing forth his course, with the air of a 
pilgrim rather than of a deer-hunter. Halbert about the 
close of the evening regained his paternal tower. 


the monastekt. 


165 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The Miller was of manly make. 

To meet him was na mows ; 

There durst na ten come him to take, 

Sae noited he their pows. 

Christ's Kirk on the Ch-een. 


It was after sunset, as we have already stated, when 
Halbert Glendinning returned to the abode of his father. 
The hour of dinner was at noon, and that of supper 
about an hour after sunset at this period of the year. 
The former had passed without Halbert’s appearing; but 
this was no uncommon circumstance, for the chase or 
any other pastime which occurred, made Halbert a fre- 
quent neglecter of hours ; and his mother, though angry 
and disappointed when she saw him not at table, was so 
much accustomed to his occasional absence, and knew 
so little how to teach him more regularity, that a testy 
observation was almost all the censure with which such 
omissions were visited. 

On the present occasion, however, the wrath of good 
-dame Elspeth soared higher than usual. It was not mere- 
ly on account of the special tup’s-head and trotters, the 
haggis and the side of mutton, with which her table was 
set forth, but also because of the arrival of no less a 
person than Hob Miller, as he was universally termed, 
though the man’s name was Happer. 

The object of the Miller’s visit to the tower of Glen- 
dearg was like the purpose of those embassies which 
potentates send to each other’s courts, partly ostensible, 
partly politic. In outward show. Hob came to visit his 
friends of the Halidome, and share the festivity common 
among country folk, after the barn-yard has been filled, 
and to renew old intimacies by new conviviality. But in 
very truth he also came to have an eye upon the contents 


J66 


THE MONASTERY. 


of each stack, and to obtain such information respecting 
the extent of the crop reaped and gathered in by each 
feuar, as might prevent the possibility of abstracted mul- 
tures. 

All the world knows that the cultivators of each bar- 
ony or regality, temporal or spiritual, in Scotland, are 
obliged to bring their corn to be grinded at the mill of 
the territory, for which they pay a heavy charge, called 
the intown multures. I could speak to the thirlage of 
invecta et illata too, but let that pass. I have said 
enough to intimate that I talk not without book. Those 
of the Sucken, or enthralled ground, were liable in penal- 
ties, if, deviating from this thirlage, (or thraldom,) they car- 
ried their grain to another mill. Now such another mill, 
erected on the lands of a lay-baron, lay within a tempt- 
ing and convenient distance of Glendearg ; and the 
Miller was so obliging, and his charges so moderate, that 
it required Hob Miller’s utmost vigilance to prevent eva- 
sions of his right of monopoly. 

The most effectual means he could devise was this 
show of good fellowship and neighbourly friendship, — 
under colour of which he made his annual cruise through 
the barony — numbered every corn-stack, and computed 
its contents by the boll, so that he could give a shrewd 
hint afterwards whether or not the grist came to the right 
mill. 

Dame Elspeth, like her compeers, was obliged to take 
these domiciliary visits in the sense of politeness ; but in 
her case they had not occurred since her husband’s 
death, probably because the tow^er of Glendearg was 
distant, and there was but a trifling quantity of arable or 
infield land attached to it. This year there had been, 
upon some speculation of old Martin’s, several bolls sown 
in the outfield, which, the season being fine, had ripened 
remarkably well. Perhaps this circumstance occasioned 
the honest Miller’s including Glendearg, on this occasion, 
in his annual round. 

Dame Glendinning received with pleasure a visit which 
she used formerly only to endure with patience ; and she 


THE MONASTERY. 


167 


had changed her view of the matter chiefly, if not entire- 
ly, because Hob had brought with him his daughter 
Mysie, of whose features she could give so slight an ac- 
count, but whose dress she had described so accurately 
to the Sub-Prior. 

Hitherto this girl had been an object of very trifling 
consideration in the eyes of the good widow ; but the 
Sub-Prior’s particular and somewhat mysterious inquiries 
had set her brains to work on the subject of Mysie of 
the Mill ; and she had here asked a broad question, and 
there she had thrown out an innuendo, and there again 
she had gradually led on to a conversation on the subject 
of poor Mysie. And from all inquiries and investigations 
she had collected, that Mysie was a dark-eyed laughter- 
loving wench, with cherry-cheeks, and a skin as white as 
her father’s finest bolted flour, out of which was made 
the Abbot’s own wastel-bread. For her temper, she 
sung and laughed from morning to night ; and for her for- 
tune, a material article, besides that which the Miller 
might have amassed by means of his proverbial golden 
thumb, Mysie was to inherit a good handsome lump of 
land, with a prospect of the mill and mill-acres descend- 
ing to her husband on an easy lease, if a fair word were 
spoken in season to the Abbot, and to the Prior, and to 
the Sub-Prior, and to the Sacristan, and so forth. 

By turning and again turning these advantages over in 
her own mind, Elspeth at length came to be of opinion, 
that the only way to save her son Halbert from a life of 
“ spur, spear, and snaffle,” as they called that of the bor- 
der-riders, from the dint of a cloth-yard shaft, or the loop 
of an inch-cord, w^as, that he should marry and settle, and 
that Mysie Happer should be his destined bride. 

As if to her wish. Hob Miller arrived on his strong-built 
mare, bearing on a pillion behind him the lovely Mysie, 
with cheeks like a peony-rose, (if Dame Glendinning had 
ever seen one,) spirits all afloat with rustic coquetry, and 
a profusion of hair as black as ebony. The beau-ideal 
which Dame Glendinning had been bodying forth in her 
imagination, became unexpectedly realized in the buxom 


168 


THE MONASTEllT. 


form of Mysie Happer, whom, in the course of half an 
hour, she settled upon as the maiden who was to fix the 
restless and untutored Halbert. True, Mysie, as the 
dame soon saw, was likely to love dancing round a may- 
pole as well as managing a domestic concern, and 
Halbert was likely to break more heads than he would 
grind stacks of corn. But then a miller should always be 
of manly make, and has been described so since the 
days of Chaucer and James I.* Indeed to be able to 
outdo and bully the whole Sucken, (once more we use 
this barbarous phrase,) in all athletic exercises, was one 
way to render easy the collection of' dues which men 
would have disputed with a less formidable champion. 
Then, as to the deficiencies of the Miller’s wife, the 
dame was of opinion that they might be supplied by the 
activity of the Miller’s mother. “ I will keep house for 
the young folk myself, for the tower is grown very 
lonely,” thought Dame Glendinning, “ and to live near 
the kirk will be mair comfortable in my auld age — and 
then Edward may agree with his brother about the feu, 
more especially as he is a favourite with the Sub-Prior, 
and then he may live in the auld tower like his worthy 
father before him — and wha kens but Mary Avenel, high- 
blooded as she is, may e’en draw in her stool to the chim- 
ney-nook, and sit down here for good and a’ f — It’s true 
she has no tocher, but the like of her for beauty and 


* The verse we have chosen for a motto, is from a poem imputed to James I. 
of Scotland. As for the Miller who figures among the Canterbury pilgrims, 
besides his sword and buckler, he boasted other attributes, all of which, but es- 
pecially the last, show that he relied more on the strength of the outside than 
that of the inside of his skull. 

The Miller was a stout carl for the nones, 

Full big he was of brawn, and eke of bones : 

That proved well, for wheresoe'er he cam, 

At wrestling he wold bear away the ram ; 

He was short-shoulder'd, broad, a thick gnar, 

There n’as no door that he n'old heave of bar, 

Or break it at a running with his head, &c. 


THE MONASTERY. 


169 


sense ne’er crossed rny een ; and I have kend every 
wench in the Halidome of St. Mary’s — ay, and their 
mothers that bore them — ay, she is a sweet and a lovely 
creature as ever tied snood over brown hair — ay, and 
then, though her uncle keeps her jout of her ain for the 
present time, yet it is to be thought the grey-goose-shaft 
will find a hole in his coat of proof, as, God help us ! it 
has done in many a better man’s — And, moreover, if they 
should stand on their pedigree and gentle race, Edward 
might say to them, that is to her gentle kith and kin, 

‘ whilk o’ ye was her best friend when she came down 
the glen to Glendearg in a misty evening, on a beast 
mair like a cuddie than aught else — And if they tax 
him with churl’s blood, Edward might say, that, forbye 
the old proverb, how 

Gentle deed 

Makes gentle bleid ; 


yet, moreover, there comes no churl’s blood from Glen- 
dinning or Brydone, for, says Edward” 

The hoarse voice of the Miller at this moment re- 
called the dame from her reverie, and compelled her to 
remember, that if she meant to realize her airy castle, 
she must begin by laying the foundation in civility to her 
guest and his daughter, whom she was at that moment 
most strangely neglecting, though her whole plan turned 
on conciliating their favour and good opinion, and that, 
in fact, while arranging matters for so intimate a union 
with her company, she was suffering them to sit unnotic- 
ed, and in their riding gear, as if about to resume their 
journey. “ And so I say, dame,” concluded the Miller, 
(for she had not marked the beginning of his speech,) 
“ an ye be so busied with your housewife skep, or aught 
else, why, Mysie and I will trot our way down the glen 
again to Johnie Broxmouth’s, who pressed us right kind- 
ly to bide with him.” 

Starting at once from her dream of marriages and inter- 
marriages, mills, mill-lands and baronies. Dame Elspeth 
15 VOE. I. 


170 


THE MONASTERY. 


felt for a moment like the milk-maid in the fable, when 
she overset the pitcher, on the contents of which so 
many golden dreams were founded. But the foundation 
of Dame Glendinning’s hopes was only tottering, not 
overthrown, and she hastened to restore its equilibrium. 
Instead of attempting to account for her absence of mind 
and want of attention to her guests, which she might 
have found something difficult, she assumed the offensive 
like an able general when he finds it necessary, by a bold 
attack, to disguise his weakness. 

A loud exclamation she made, and a passionate com- 
plaint she set up against the unkindness of her old friend, 
who could for an instant doubt the heartiness of her 
welcome to him and to his hopeful daughter ; and then 
to think of his going back to John Broxmouth’s,when 
the auld tower stood where it did and had room in it for 
a friend or two in the worst of times — and he too a neigh- 
bour that his umquhile gossip Simon, blessed be his cast, 
used to think the best friend he had in the Halidome ! 
And on she went, urging her complaint with so much 
seriousness that she had well nigh imposed on herself as 
w^ell as upon Hob Miller, who had no mind to take any 
thing in dudgeon ; and as it suited his plans to pass the 
night at Glendearg, would have been equally contented 
to do so even had his reception been less vehemently 
hospitable. 

To all Elspeth’s expostulations on the unkindness of 
his proposal to leave her dwelling, he answered compo- 
sedly, “ Nay, dame what could I tell ? ye might have 
had other grist to grind, for ye looked as if ye scarce saw 
us — or what know I ? ye might bear in mind the words 
Martin and I had about the last barley ye sawed — for I 
ken dry multures* will sometimes stick in the throat. A 
man seeks but his awn, and yet folk shall hold him for 


* Dry multures were a fine, or compensation in money, for not grinding at 
the mill of the thirl. Jt was, and is, accounted a vexatious exaction. 


THE MONASTEUY. 


171 


both Miller and Miller’s man, that is Miller and knave,* 
all the country over.” 

“ Alas ! that you will say so, neighbour Hob,” said 
Dame Elspeth, “ or that Martin should have had any 
words with you about the mill-dues! I will chide him 
roundly for it, I promise you, on the faith of a true widow. 
You know full well that a lone woman is sore put upon 
by her servants.” 

“ Nay, Dame,” said the Miller, unbuckling the broad 
belt which made fast his cloak, and served, at the same 
time, to suspend by his side a swinging Andrew Ferrara, 
“ bear no grudge at Martin, for I bear none — I take it 
on me as a thing of mine office to maintain my right of 
multure, lock, and goupen.f And reason good, for, as 
the old song says. 


1 live by my mill, God bless her, 
She’s parent, child, and wife. 


The poor old slut, 1 am beholden to her for my living, 
and bound to stand by her, as I say to my mill-knaves, 
in right and in wrong. And so should every honest 
fellow stand by his bread-winner. — And so, Mysie, ye 
may doff your cloak since our neighbour is so kindly 
glad to see us — why, I think, we are as blithe to see her 
— not one in the Halidome pays their multures more du- 
ly, sequels, arriage, and carriage, and mill-services, used 
and wont.” 

With that the Miller hung his ample cloak without 
further ceremony upon a huge pair of stag’s antlers. 


" The under Miller, is, in the language of thirlage, called the knave, w^hich 
indeed signified originally his lad, (Anafie- German,) but by degrees came to 
be taken in a w'orse sense. In the old translations of the Bible, Paul is made 
to term himself the- knave of our Saviour. The allowance of meal taken by 
the Miller’s servant was called knaveship. 

t The multure was the regular exaction for grinding the meal. The lock, 
(signifying a small quantity,) and the s^cnvpm,^ handful, were additional perqui- 
sites demanded by the Miller, and submitted to or resisted by the Suckener as 
circumstances permitted. These and other petty dues were called in general 
the Sequels. 


172 


THE MONASTERY. 


which adorned at once the naked walls of the tower, 
and served for what wo vulgarly call cloak-pins. 

In the mean time, Dame Elspeth assisted to disembar- 
rass the damsel whom she destined for her future daugh- 
ter-in-law, of her hood, mantle, and the rest of her riding 
gear, giving her to appear as beseemed the buxom daugh- 
ter of the wealthy Miller, gay and goodly, in a white 
kirtle, the seams of which were embroidered with green 
silken lace or fringe, entwined with some silver thread. 
An anxious glance did Elspeth cast upon the good-hu- 
moured face, which was now more fully shown to her, 
and was only obscured by a quantity of raven black hair, 
which the maid of the mill had restrained by a snood 
of green silk, embroidered with silver, corresponding to 
the trimmings of her kirtle. The countenance itself was 
exceedingly comely — the eyes black, large, and roguishly 
good-humoured — the mouth was small — the lips well for- 
med, though somewhat full — the teeth were pearly white 
— and the chin had a very seducing dimple in it. The 
form belonging to this joyous face was full and round, 
and firm and fair. It might become coarse and mascu- 
line some years hence, which is the common fault of 
Scottish beauty ; but in Mysie’s sixteenth year she had 
the shape of an Hebe. The anxious Elspeth, with all 
her maternal partiality, could not help admitting within 
herself, that a better man than Halbert might go farther 
and fare worse. She looked a little giddy, and Halbert 
was not nineteen ; still it was time he should be settled, 
for to that point the dame always returned ; and here was 
an excellent opportunity. 

The simple cunning of Dame Elspeth now exhausted 
itself in commendations of her fair guest, from the snood, 
as they say, to the single-soled shoe. Mysie listened and 
blushed with pleasure for the first five minutes ; but ere 
ten had lapsed, she began to view the old lady’s com- 
pliments rather as subjects of mirth than of vanity, and 
was much more disposed to laugh at than to be flatter- 
ed with them, for Nature had mingled the good-humour 
with which she had endowed the damsel with no small 


THE MONASTERY. 


173 


portion of shrewdness. Even Hob himself began to tire 
of hearing his daughter’s praises, and broke in with, “ Ay, 
ay, she is a clever quean enough ; and, were she five 
years older, she shall lay a loaded sack on an aver* with 
e’er a lass in the Halidorne. But I have been looking 
for your two sons, dame. Men say dowmby, that Hal- 
bert’s turned a wild springald, and that we may have 
word of him from Westmoreland one moonlight night or 
nother.” 

“ God forbid, my good neighbour ; God, in his mercy, 
forbid !” said dame Glendinning earnestly ; for it was 
touching the very key-note of her apprehensions, to hint 
any probability that Halbert might become one of the 
marauders so common in the age and country. But, 
fearful of having betrayed too much alarm on the sub- 
ject, she immediately added, “ That though, since the 
last rout at Pinkie-cleuch, she had been all of a tremble 
when a gun or a spear was named, or when men spoke 
of fighting ; yet, thanks to God and Our Lady, her sons 
were like to live and die honest and peaceful tenants to 
the Abbey, as their father might have done, hut for that 
awful hosting which he went forth to, with mony a brave 
man that never returned.” 

“ Ye need not t.ell me of it, dame,” said the Miller, 
‘‘ since I was there myself, and made two pair of legs 
(and these were not mine, but my mare’s,) worth one 
pair of hands. I judged how it would be, when 1 saw 
our host break ranks, with rushing on through that broken 
ploughed field, and so as they had made a pricker of me, 
I e’en pricked off with myself while the play was good.” 

“ Ay, ay, neighbour,” said the dame, “ ye were aye 
a wise and a wary man ; if my Simon had had your wit, 
he might have been here to speak about it this day : But 
he was aye cracking of his good blood and his high kind- 
red, and less would not serve him than to bide the bang 


* Avo ’ — properly a horse of labour. 
15* VOL. I. 


174 


THE MOXASTERY* 


to the last, with the earls, and knights, and squires, that 
had no wives to greet for them, or else had wives that 
cared not how soon they were widows ; but that is not 
for the like of us. But touching my son Halbert, there 
is no fear of him ; for if it should be his misfortune to 
be in the like case, he has the best pair of heels in the 
Halidome, and could run almost as fast as your mare 
herself.” 

“ Is this he, neighbour ?” quoth the Miller. 

“ No,” replied the mother ; “ that is my youngest 
son, Edward, who can read and write like the Lord Ab- 
bot himself, if it were not a sin to say so.” 

“ Ay,” said the Miller ; “ and is that the young clerk 
the Sub-Prior thinks so much of ? they say he will 
come far ben that lad ; wha kens but he may come to be 
Sub-Prior himself? — as broken a ship has come to land.” 

“ To be a prior, neighbour Miller,” said Edward, “ a 
man must first be a priest, and for that I judge I have lit- 
tle vocation.” 

“ He will take to the pleugh-pettle, neighbour,” said 
the good dame ; “ and so will Halbert too, I trust. I 
wish you saw Halbert. — Edward, where is your brother?” 

“ Hunting, 1 think,” replied Edward ; “ at least he left 
us this morning to join the Laird of Colmslie and 
his hounds. I have heard them baying in the glen all 
day.” 

“ And if I had heard that music,” said the Miller, “ It 
would have done my heart good, ay, and maybe taken 
me two or three miles out of my road. When I was the 
Miller of Morebattle’s knave, I have followed the hounds 
from Eckford to the foot of Hounam-law — followed them 
on foot, Dame Glendinning, ay, and led the chase when 
the Laird of Cessford and his gay riders were all thrown 
out by the mosses and gills. I brought the stag on my 
back to Hounam Cross, when the dogs had pulled him 
down. I think I see the old grey knight, as he sat so 
upright on his strong war-horse all white* with foam ; and 
‘ Miller,’ said he to me, ‘ an thou wilt turn thy back on 
the mill, and wend with me, I will make a man of thee.’ 


THE MONASTERY. 


175 


But I chose rather to abide by clap and happer, and the 
better luck was mine ; for the proud Percy caused hang 
five of the Laird’s henchmen at Alnwick for burning a 
rickle of houses some gate beyond Fowberry, and it might 
have been my luck as well as another man’s.” 

“ Ah, neighbour, neighbour,” said Dame Glendinning, 
“ you were aye wise and wary ; but if you like hunting, 
I must say Halbert’s the lad to please you. He hath all 
hose fair holiday-terms of hawk and hound as ready in 
nis mouth as Tom with the tod’s-tail, that is the Lord 
Abbot’s ranger.” 

“ Ranges he not homeward at dinner-time, dame,” 
demanded the Miller ; “ for we call noon the dinner- 
hour at Kennaquhair 

The widow was forced to admit, that even at this 
important period of the day. Halbert was frequently ab- 
sent ; at which the Miller shook his head, intimating, at 
the same time, some allusion to the proverb of Mac Far- 
lane’s geese, which “ liked their play better than their 
meat.”^'^ 

That the delay of dinner might not increase the Mil- 
ler’s disposition to prejudge Halbert, Dame Glendinning 
called hastily on Mary Avenel to take the task of enter- 
taining Mysie Happer, while she herself rushed to the 
kitchen, and, entering at once into the province of Tibb 
Tacket, rummaged among trenchers and dishes, snatch- 
ed pots from the fire, and placed pans and gridirons 
on it, accompanying her own feats of personal activity 
with such a continued list of injunctions to Tibb, that 
Tibb at length lost patience, and said, “ Here was as 
rauckle wark about mealing an auld miller, as if they had 
been to banquet the blood of Bruce.” But this, as it 
was supposed to be spoken aside. Dame Glendinning 
did not think it convenient to hear. 


176 


THE MONASTERY. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Nay, let me have the friends who eat my victuals, 

As various as my dishes. — The feast’s naught, 

Where one huge plate predominates. John Plaintext, 

He shall be mighty beef, our English staple ; 

The worthy Alderman, a butter’d dumpling; 

Yon pair of whisker’d Cornets, ruffs and rees ; 

Their friend the Dandy, a green goose in sippets. 

And so the board is spread at once and fill’d 

On the same principle — Variety. New Play. 

“ And what brave lass is this ?” said Hob Miller, as 
Mary Avenel entered the apartnaent to supply the absence 
of Dame Elspeth Glendinning. 

“ The young Lady of Avenel, father,” said the Maid 
of the Mill, dropping as low’’ a curtsy as her rustic 
manners enabled her to make. The Miller, her father, 
doffed his bonnet, and made his reverence, not altogether 
so low perhaps as if the young lady had appeared in the 
pride of rank and riches, yet so as to give high birth the 
due homage which the Scotch for a length of time scru- 
pulously rendered to it. 

Indeed, from having had her mother’s example before 
her for so many years, and from a native sense of pro- 
priety and even of dignity, Mary Avenel had acquired a 
demeanour, which marked her title to consideration, and 
effectually checked any attempt at familiarity on the part 
of those w'ho might be her associates in her present situ- 
ation, but could not be well termed her equals. She 
was by nature mild, pensive, and contemplative, gentle 
in disposition, and most placable when accidentally of- 
fended ; but still she was of a retired and reserved habit, 
and shunned to mix in ordinary sports, even when the 
rare occurrence of a fair or wake gave her an oppor- 
tunity of mingling with companions of her own age. If 


THE MONASTERY. 


177 


at such scenes she was seen for an instant, she appeared 
to hehold them with the composed indifference of one to 
whom their gaiety was a matter of no interest, and who 
seemed only desirous to glide away from the scene as 
soon as she possibly could. 

Something also had transpired concerning her being 
born on All-hallow Eve, and the powers with which that 
circumstance was supposed to invest her over the invisi- 
ble world. And from all these particulars combined, 
the young men and women of the Halidome used to 
distinguish Mary among themselves by the name of the 
Spirit of Avenel, as if the fair but fragile form, the beau- 
tiful but rather colourless cheek, the dark blue eye, and 
the shady hair, had belonged rather to the immaterial 
than the substantial world. The general tradition of the 
White Lady, who was supposed to wait on the fortunes 
of the family of Avenel, gave a sort of zest to this piece 
of rural wit. It gave great offence, however, to the two 
sons of Simon Glendinning; and when the expression 
was in their presence applied to the young lady, Edward 
was wont to check the petulance of those who used it 
by strength of argument, and Halbert by strength of arm. 
In such cases Halbert had this advantage, that although 
he could render no aid to his brother’s argument, yet 
when circumstances required it, he was sure to have that 
of Edward, who never indeed himself commenced a fray, 
but, on the other hand, did not testify any reluctance to 
enter into combat in Halbert’s behalf or in his rescue. 

But the zealous attachment of the two youths, being 
themselves, from the retired situation in which they 
dwelt, comparative strangers in the Halidome, did not 
serve in any degree to alter the feelings of the inhabi- 
tants towards the young lady, who seemed to have drop- 
ped amongst them from another sphere of life. 
Still, however, she was regarded with respect, if not 
with fondness ; and the attention of the Sub-Prior to the 
family, not to mention the formidable name of Julian 
Avenel, which every new incident of those tumultuous 


178 


THE MOJTASTERY. 


times tended to render more famous, attached to his niece 
a certain importance. Thus some aspired to her ac- 
quaintance out of pride, while the more timid ol the 
feuars were anxious to inculcate upon their children, the 
necessity of being respectful to the noble orphan. So 
that Mary Avenel, little loved because little known, was 
regarded with a mysterious awe, partly derived from fear 
of her uncle’s moss-troopers, and partly from her own 
retired and distant habits, enhanced by the superstitious 
opinions of the time and country. 

It was not without some portion of this awe, that 
Mysie felt herself left alone in company with a young 
person so distant in rank, and so different in bearing from 
herself ; for her wmrthy father had taken the first oppor- 
tunity to step out unobserved, in order to mark how the 
barn-yard was filled, and what prospect it afforded of 
grist to the mill. In youth, however, there is a sort of 
free-masonry, which, without much conversation, teaches 
young persons to estimate each other’s character, and 
places them at ease on the shortest acquaintance. It 
is only when taught deceit by the commerce of the world, 
that we learn to shroud our character from observation ; 
and to disguise our real sentiments from those with whom 
we are placed in communion. 

Accordingly, the two young women were soon engag- 
ed in such objects of interest as best became their age. 
They visited Mary Avenel’s pigeons, which she nursed 
with the tenderness of a mother ; they turned over her 
slender stores of finery, which yet contained some arti- 
cles that excited the respect of her companion, though 
Mysie was too good-humoured to nourish envy. A gold- 
en rosary, and some female ornaments marking superior 
rank, had been rescued in the moment of their utmost 
adversity, more by Tibb Tacket’s presence of mind, 
than by the care of their owner, who was at that sad pe- 
riod too much sunk in grief to pay any attention 
to such circumstances. They struck Mysie with a deep 
impression of veneration ; for, excepting what the Lord 
Abbot and the convent might possess, she did not believe 


THE MONASTERY. 


179 


there was so much real gold in the world as was exhib- 
ited in these few trinkets ; and Mary, however sage and 
serious, was not above being pleased with the admiration 
of her rustic companion. 

Nothing, indeed, could exhibit a stronger contrast than 
the appearance of the two girls ; — the good-humoured 
laughter-loving countenance of the Maid of the Mill, 
who stood gazing with unrepressed astonishment on 
whatever was in her inexperienced eye rare and costly, 
and with a humble, and at the same time cheerful acqui- 
escence in her inferiority, asking all the little queries 
about the use and value of the ornaments, while Mary 
Avenel, with her quiet composed dignity and placidity of 
manner, produced them one after another for the amuse- 
ment of her companion. 

As they became gradually more familiar, Mysie of 
the Mill was just venturing to ask, why Mary Avenel 
never appeared at the May-pole, and to express her won- 
der, when the young lady said she disliked dancing, when 
a trampling of horses at the gate of the tower interrupt- 
ed their conversation. 

Mysie flew to the shot-window, in the full ardour of 
unrestrained female curiosity. “ Saint Mary ! sweet 
lady ! here come two well-mounted gallants; will you 
step this way to look at them 

“ No,” said Mary Avenel, “ you shall tell me who 
they are.” 

“ Well, if you like it better,” said Mysie — “ but how 
shall I know them ^ — Stay, I do know one of them, and 
so do you, lady ; he is a blithe man, somewhat light of 
hand, they say, but the gallants of these days think no 
great harm of that. He is your uncle’s henchman, that 
they call Christie of the Clint-hill ; and he has not his 
old green jerkin, and the rusty black-jack over it, but a 
scarlet cloak, laid down with silver lace three inches 
broad, and a breast-plate you might see to dress your 
hair in, as well as in that keeking-glass in the ivory frame 
that you showed me even now. Come, dear lady, come 
to the shot-window and see him.” 


180 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ If it be the man you mean, Mysie,” replied the or- 
phan of Avenel, “ I shall see him soon enough, consid- 
ering either the pleasure or comfort the sight will give 
me.” 

“ Nay, but if you will not come to see gay Christie,” 
replied the Maid of the Mill, her face flushed with 
eager curiosity, “ come and tell me who the gallant is 
that is with him, the handsomest, the very lovesomest 
young man I ever saw with sight.” 

“ It is my foster-brother. Halbert Glendinning,” said 
Mary, with apparent indifference ; for she had been ac- 
customed to call the sons of Elspeth her foster-brethren, 
and to live with them as if they had been her brothers 
in earnest. 

“ Nay, by our Lady, that it is not,” said Mysie ; “ I 
know the favour of both the Glendinnings well, and I 
think this rider be not of our country. He has a crim- 
son velvet bonnet, and long brown hair falling down un- 
der it, and a beard on his upper lip, and his chin clean 
and close shaved, save a small patch on the point of it, and 
a sky-blue jerkin, slashed and lined with white satin, and 
trunk-hose to suit, and no weapon but a rapier and dagger 
— Well, if I was a man, I would never wear weapon but 
the rapier ! it is so slender and becoming, instead of 
having a cart-load of iron at my back, like my father’s 
broadsword, with its great rusty basket-hilt. Do you not 
delight in the rapier and poniard, lady ?” 

“ The best sword,” answered Mary, “ if I must needs 
answer a question of the sort, is that which is drawn in 
the best cause, and which is best used when it is out of 
the scabbard.” 

“ But can you not guess who this stranger should be 
said Mysie. 

“ Indeed, I cannot even attempt it : but to judge by 
his companion, it is no matter how little he is known,” 
replied Mary. 

“ My benison on his bonny face,” said Mysie, “ if he 
is not going to alight here ! Now, I am as much pleased 
as if my father had given me the silver ear-rings he has 


THE MOXASTERY. 


181 


promised me so often ; nay, you had as well come to the 
window, for you must see him by and by, whether you 
will or not.” 

I do not know how much sooner Mary Avenel might 
have sought the point of observation, if she had not been 
scared from it by the unrestrained curiosity expressed by 
her buxom friend ; but at length the same feeling pre- 
vailed over her sense of dignity, and satisfied with having 
displayed all the indifference that was necessary in point 
of decorum, she no longer thought herselfbound to restrain 
her curiosity. 

From the out-shot or projecting window she could 
perceive, that Christie of the Clint-hill was attended on 
the present occasion by a very gay and gallant cavalier, 
who, from the nobleness of his countenance and manner, 
his rich and handsome dress, and the showy appearance 
of his horse and furniture, must, she agreed with her 
new friend, be a person of some consequence. 

Christie also seemed conscious of something which 
made him call out with more than his usual insolence of 
manner, “ What, ho ! so ho ! the house ! Churl peas- 
ants, will no one answer when I call — Ho ! Marlin, 
— Tibb, — Dame Glendinning ! — a murrain on you, must 
we stand keeping our horses in the cold here, and they 
steaming with heat, when we have ridden so sharply 

At length he was obeyed, and old Martin made his 
appearance. “ Ha !” said Christie, “ art thou there, 
old True-penny !’ here, stable me these steeds, and see 
them well bedded, and stretch thine old limbs by rub- 
bing them down ; and see thou quit not the stable till 
there is not a turned hair on either of them.” 

Martin took the horses to the stable as commanded, 
but suppressed not his indignation a moment after he 
could vent it with safety. “ Would not any one think,” 
he said to Jasper, an old ploughman, who, in coming to 
his assistance, had heard Christie’s imperious injunctions, 
“ that this loon, this Christie of the Clint-hill, was laird 
or 'ord at least of him No such thing, man ! I remem- 
16 VOL. I. 


182 


THE MOXASTERY. 


ber him a little dirty turnspit boy in the house of Avenel, 
that every body in a frosty morning like this, warmed 
his fingers by kicking or cuffing ! and now he is a gen- 
tleman, and swears, d — n him and renounce him, as if 
the gentlemen could not so much as keep their own wick- 
edness to themselves, without the like of him going to 
hell in their very company, and by the same road. I 
have as much a mind as ever I had to my dinner, to go 
back and tell him to sort his horse himself, since he is 
as able as I am.” 

“ Hout tout, man !” answered Jasper, “ keep a calm 
sough ; better to fleech a fool than fight with him.” 

Martin acknowledged the truth of the proverb, and, 
much comforted therewith, betook himself to cleaning 
the stranger’s horse with great assiduity, remarking, it 
was a pleasure to handle a handsome nag, and turned 
over the other to the charge of Jasper. Nor was it until 
Christie’s commands were literally complied with, that 
he deemed it proper, after fitting ablutions to join the 
party in the spence ; not for the purpose of waiting upon 
them, as a mere modern reader might possibly expect, 
but that he might have his share of dinner in their com- 
pany. 

In the meanwhile Christie had presented his compan- 
ion to Dame Glendinning as Sir Piercie Shafton, a friend 
of his and of his master, come to spend three or four- 
days with little din in the tower. The good dame could 
not conceive how she was entitled to such an honour, and 
would fain have pleaded her want of every sort of con- 
venience to entertain a guest of that quality. But, in- 
deed, the visiter, when he cast his eyes round the bare 
walls, eyed the huge black chimney, scrutinized the 
meagre and broken furniture of the apartment, and be- 
held the embarrassment of the mistress of the family, 
intimated great reluctance to intrude upon Dame Glen- 
dinning a visit, which could scarce, from all appearances, 
prove otherwise than an inconvenience to her, and u 
penance to himself. 


THE MONASTERY. 


183 


But the reluctant hostess and her guest had to do with 
an inexorable man, who silenced all expostulation with, ^ 
“such was his master’s pleasure. And, moreover,” he 
continued, “ though the Baron of Avenel’s will must, 
and ought to prove law to all within ten miles around 
him, yet here, dame,” he said, “ is a letter from your 
petticoated baron, the lord-priest yonder, who enjoins you, 
as you regard his pleasure, that you afford to this good 
knight such decent accommodation as is in your power, 
suffering him to live as privately as he shall desire. And 
for you. Sir Piercie Shafton,” continued Christie, “you 
will judge for yourself, whether secrecy and safety is not 
more your object even now, than soft beds and high 
cheer. And do not judge of the dame’s goods by the 
semblance of her cottage ; for you will see by the dinner 
she is about to spread for us, that the vassal of the kirk 
is seldom found with her basket bare.” To Mary Ave- 
nel Christie presented the stranger, after the best fashion 
he could, as to the niece of his master the Baron. 

While he thus laboured to reconcile Sir Piercie Shafton 
to his fate, the widow having consulted her son Edward 
on the real import of the Lord Abbot’s injunction, and 
having found that Christie had given a true exposition, 
saw nothing else left for her but to make that fate as easy 
as she could to the stranger. He himself also seemed 
reconciled to his lot by some feeling probably of strong 
necessity, and accepted with a good grace the hospitality 
which the dame offered with a very indifferent one. 

In fact, the dinner which soon smoked before the as- 
sembled guests, was of that substantial kind which war- 
rants plenty and comfort. Dame Glendinning had cook- 
ed it after her best manner ; and, delighted with the 
handsome appearance which her good cheer made when 
placed on the table, forgot both her plans and the vexa- 
tions which interrupted them, in the hospitable duty of 
pressing her assembled visiters to eat and drink, watch- 
ing every trencher as it waxed empty, and loading it with 
fresh supplies ere the guest could utter a negative. 

In the meanwhile the company attentively regarded 
each other’s motions, and seemed endeavouring to form a 


184 


THE MONASTERY. 


judgment of each other’s character. Sir Piercle Shafton 
condescended to speak to no one but to Mary Avenel, 
and on her he conferred exactly the same familiar and 
compassionate, though somewhat scornful sort of atten- 
tion, which a pretty fellow of these days will sometimes 
condescend to bestow on a country miss, when there is 
no prettier or more fashionable woman present. The 
manner indeed was different, for the etiquette of those 
times did not permit Sir Piercie Shafton to pick his teeth 
or to yawn, or to ^bble like the beggar whose tongue 
(as he says) was cut out by the Turks, or to affect deaf- 
ness or blindness, or any other infirmity of the organs. 
But though the embroidery of his conversation was differ- 
ent, the ground-work was the same, and the high-flown 
and ornate compliments with which the gallant knight of 
the sixteenth century interlarded his conversation, w^ere 
as much the offspring of egotism and self-conceit, as the 
jargon of the coxcombs of our own days. 

The English knight was, however, something daunted 
at finding that Mary Avenel listened with an air of indif- 
ference, and answered with wonderful brevity, to all the 
fine things which ought, as he conceived, to have dazzled 
her with their brilliancy, and puzzled her by their obscu- 
rity. But if he was disappointed in making the desired, 
or rather the expected impression, upon her whom he 
addressed. Sir Piercie Shafton’s discourse was marvellous 
in the ears of Mysie the Miller’s daughter, and not the 
less so that she did not comprehend the meaning of a 
single word which he uttered. Indeed, the gallant 
knight’s language was far too courtly to be understood 
by persons of much greater acuteness than Mysie’s. 

It was about this period, that the ‘‘ only rare poet of his 
time, the witty, comical, facetiously-quick, and quickly- 
facetious John Lylly — he that sat at Apollo’s table, and 
to whom Phoebus gave a wreath of his own bays without 
snatching”* — he, in short, who wrote that singularly cox- 

* Such and yet more extravagant are the compliments paid to this author by 
his editor Blount. Notwithstanding all exaggeration, Lylly was really a man 
of wit and imagination, though both were deformed by the most unnatural 
ali’ectation that ever disgraced a printed page. 


THE MONASTERY. 


185 


comical work, called EupJiues mid his England, was in 
the very zenith of his absurdity and reputation. The 
quaint, forced, and unnatural style which he introduced 
by his “ Anatomy of Wit,” had a fashion as rapid as it 
was momentary — all the court ladies were his scholars, 
and to parler Euphuisme, was as necessary a qualification 
to a courtly gallant, as those of understanding how to use 
his rapier or to dance a measure. 

It was no wonder that the Maid of the Mill was soon 
as effectually blinded by the intricacies of this erudite and 
courtly style of conversation, as she had ever been by 
the dust of her father’s own meal-sacks. But there she 
sat with her mouth and eyes as open as the mill-door and 
the two windows, showing teeth as white as her father’s 
boiled flour, and endeavouring to secure a word or two 
for her own future use out of the pearls of rhetoric which 
Sir Piercie Shafton scattered around him with such 
bounteous profusion. 

For the male part of the company, Edward felt asham- 
ed of his own manner and slowness of speech, when he 
observed the handsome young courtier, with an ease and 
volubility, of w^hich he had no conception, run over all 
the common place topics of high-flown gallantry. It is 
true, the good sense and natural taste of young Glendin- 
nirig soon informed him that the gallant cavalier was 
speaking nonsense. But, alas ! where is the man of 
modest merit, and real talent, who has not suffered from 
being outshone in conversation, and outstripped in the 
race of life, by men of less reserve, and of qualities 
more showy, though less substantial ? and well consti- 
tuted must the mind be, that can yield up the prize with- 
out envy to competitors more worthy than himself. 

Edward Glendinning had no such philosophy. While 
he despised the jargon of the gay cavalier, he envied the 
facility with which he could run on, as well as the courtly 
grace of his tone and expression, and the perfect ease 
and elegance with which he offered all the little acts of 
politene'ss to which the duties of the table gave opportu- 
16 * VOL. I. 


186 


THE MONASTERY. 


iiity. And if I am to speak truth, I must own that he 
envied those qualities the more, as they were all exer- 
cised in Mary Avenel’s service, and, although only so 
far accepted as they could not be refused, intimated a 
wish on the stranger’s part to place himself in her good 
graces, as the only person in the room to whom he thought 
it worth while to recommend himself. His title, rank, 
and very handsome figure, together with some sparks of 
wit and spirit which were flashed across the cloud of non- 
sense which he uttered, rendered him, as the words of the 
old song say, “ a lad for a lady’s viewing so that poor 
Edward, with all his real worth and acquired knowledge, 
in his home-spun doublet, blue cap, and deerskin trow- 
sers, looked like a clown beside the courtier, and, feeling 
the full inferiority, nourished no good-will to him by whom 
he was eclipsed. 

Christie, on the other hand, so soon as he had satisfied 
to the full a commodious appetite, by means of which 
persons of his profession could, like the wolf and eagle, 
gorge themselves with as much food at one meal as might 
serve them for several days, began also to feel himself 
more in the back-ground than he liked to be. This wor- 
thy had, amongst his other good qualities, an excellent 
opinion of himself ; and, being of a bold and forward 
disposition, had no mind to be thrown into the shade by 
any one. With that impudent familiarity which such 
persons mistake for graceful ease, he broke in upon the 
knight’s finest speeches with as little remorse as he would 
have driven the point of his lance through a laced doublet. 

Sir Piercie Shafton, a man of rank and high birth, 
by no means encouraged or endured this familiarity, and 
requited the intruder either with total neglect, or such 
laconic replies, as intimated a sovereign contempt for 
the rude spearman, who affected to converse with him 
upon terms of equality. 

The Miller held his peace ; for, as his usual con- 
versation turned chiefly on his clapper and toll-dish, he 
had no mind to brag of his wealth in presence of Christie 


THE MONASTERY. 


187 


of the Clint-hill, or to intrude his discourse on the Eng- 
lish cavalier. 

A little specimen of the conversation may not be out of 
place, were it but to show young ladies what fine things 
they have lost by living when Euphuism is out of fashion. 

“ Credit me, fairest lady,” said the knight, “ that such 
is the cunning of our English courtiers of the hodiernal 
strain, that, as they have infinitely refined upon the plain 
and rustical discourse of our fathers, which, as 1 may 
say, more beseemed the mouths of country roisterers in 
a May-game than that of courtly gallants in a galliard, so 
I hold it ineffably and unutterably impossible, that those 
who may succeed us in that garden of wit and courtesy 
shall alter or amend it. Venus delighteth but in the 
language of Mercury, Bucephalus will stoop to no one but 
Alexander, none can sound Apollo’s pipe but Orpheus.” 

“ Valiant sir,” said Mary, who could scarce help 
laughing, “ we have but to rejoice in the chance which 
hath honoured this solitude with a glimpse of the sun of 
courtesy, though it rather blinds than enlightens us.” 

“ Pretty and quaint, fairest lady,” answered the 
Euphuist. ‘‘Ah, that I had with me my Anatomy of 
Wit — that all-to-be-unparalleled volume- — that quintes- 
sence of human wit — that treasury of quaint invention — 
that exquisitely-pleasant-to-read, and inevitably-necessa- 
ry-to-be-remembered manual of all that is worthy to be 
known — which indoctrines the rude in civility, the dull in 
intellectuality, the heavy in jocosity, the blunt in gentility, 
the vulgar in nobility, and all of them in that unutterable 
perfection of human utterance, that eloquence which no 
other eloquence is sufficient to praise, that art which, when 
we call it by its own name of Euphuism, we bestow on it 
its richest panegyric.” 

“ By Saint Mary,” said Christie of the Clint-hill, “ if 
your worship had told me that you had left such stores of 
wealth as you talk of at Prudhoe Castle, Long Dickie and 
I would have had them off with us if man and horse could 
have carried them ; but you told us of no treasure I wot 
of, save the silver tongs for turning up your mustachoes.” 


188 


THE MONASTERY. 


The Knight treated this intruder’s mistake — for cer- 
tainly Christie had no idea that all these epithets which 
sounded so rich and splendid, were lavished upon a small 
quarto volume— with a stare, and then turning again to 
Mary Avenel, the only person whom he thought worthy 
to address, he proceeded in his strain of high-flown 
oratory, “ Even thus,” said he, “ do hogs contemn the 
splendour of oriental pearls ; even thus are the delicacies 
of a choice repast in vain offered to the long-eared 
grazer of the common, who turneth from them to devour 
a thistle. Surely as idle is it to pour forth the treasures 
of oratory before the eyes of the ignorant, and to spread 
the dainties of the intellectual banquet before those who 
are, morally and metaphysically speaking, no better than 
asses.” 

“ Sir Knight, since that is your quality,” said Ed- 
ward, “ we cannot strive with you in loftiness of lan- 
guage ; but I pray you in fair courtesy, while you honour 
my father’s house with your presence, to spare us such 
vile comparisons.” 

“ Peace, good villagio,” said the knight, gracefully 
waving his hand, “ I prithee peace, kind rustic ; and 
you, my guide, whom I may scarce call honest, let me 
prevail upon you to imitate the laudable taciturnity of 
that honest yeoman, who sits as mute as a mill-post, and 
of that comely damsel, who seems as with her ears she 
drank in what she did not altogether comprehend, even 
as a palfrey listeneth to a lute, whereof howsoever he 
knoweth not the gamut.” 

Marvellous fine words,” at length said Dame Glen- 
dinning, who began to be tired of sitting so long silent, 
“ marvellous fine words, neighbour Happer, are they 
not 

“ Brave words — very brave words — very exceeding 
pyet words,” answered the Miller ; ‘‘ nevertheless, to 
speak my mind, a lippy of bran were worth a bushel o’ 
them.” 

“ I think so too, under his worship’s favour,” answered 
Christie of the Clint-hill. “ I well remember that at 


THE MOIfASTERT. 


189 


the race of Morham, as we called it, near Berwick, I 
took a young southern fellow out of saddle with rny lance, 
and cast him, it might be, a gad’s length from his nag ; 
and so, as he had some gold on his laced doublet, T deem- 
ed he might ha’ the like on it in his pocket too, though 
that is a rule that does not aye hold good — So 1 was 
speaking to him of ransom and out he comes with a 
handful of such terms as his honour there hath gleaned 
up, and craved me for mercy, as I was a true son of Mars, 
and such like.” 

“And obtained no mercy at thy hand, I dare be sworn,” 
said the knight, who deigned not to speak Euphuism 
excepting to the fair sex. 

“ By my troggs,” replied Christie, “ I would have thrust 
my lance down his throat, but just then they flung open that 
accursed postern gate, and forth pricked old Hunsdon and 
Henry Cary, and as many fellows at their heels as turned 
the chase northward again. So I e’en pricked Bayard 
with the spur and went off with the rest ; for a man should 
ride when he may not wrestle, as they say in Tynedale.” 

“ Trust me,” said the knight, again turning to Mary 
Avenel, “ if I do not pity you, lady, who, being of noble 
blood, are thus in a manner compelled to abide in the 
cottage of the ignorant, like the precious stone in the head 
of a toad, or like a precious garland on the brow of an 
ass — But soft, what gallant have we here, whose garb 
savoureth more of the rustic than doth his demeanour, 
and whose looks seem more lofty than his habit F even 
as” 

“ I pray you, Sir Knight,” said Mary, “ to spare your 
courtly similitudes for refined ears, and give me leave to 
name unto you my foster-brother. Halbert Glendinning.” 

“ The son of the good dame of the cottage, as I 
opine,” answered the English knight ; “ for by some 
such name did my guide discriminate the mistress of this 
mansion, which, you, madam, enrich with your presence. 
— And yet, touching this juvenal, he hath that about him 
which belongeth to higher birth, for all are not black who 
dig coals” 


190 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Nor all white who are Millers,” said honest Hob, 
glad to get in a word, as they say, edge-ways. 

Halbert who had sustained the glance of the English- 
man with some impatience, and knew not what to make 
of his manner and language, replied with some asperity, 
“ Sir Knight, we have in this land of Scotland an ancient 
saying, ‘ Scorn not the bush that bields you’ — you are a 
guest in my father’s house to shelter you from danger, if 
I am rightly informed by the domestics. Scoff not its 
homeliness or that of its inmates — ye might long have 
abidden at the court of England, ere we had sought your 
favour or cumbered you with our society. Since your 
fate has sent you hither amongst us, be contented with 
such fare and such converse as we can afford you, and 
scorn us not for our kindness ; for the Scots wear short 
patience and long daggers.” 

All eyes were turned on Halbert while he was thus 
speaking, and there was a general feeling that his coun- 
tenance had an expression of intelligence, and his person 
an air of dignity, which they had never before observed. 
Whether it were that the wonderful Being with whom 
he had so lately held communication, had bestowed on 
him a grace and dignity of look and bearing which he had 
not before, or whether the being conversant in high mat- 
ters, and called to a destiny beyond that of other men, 
had a natural effect in giving becoming confidence to his 
language and manner, we pretend not to determine. But 
it was evident to all, that, from this day, young Halbert 
was an altered man ; that he acted with the steadiness, 
promptitude, and determination-which belonged to riper 
years, and bore himself with a manner which appertained 
to higher rank. 

The knight took the rebuke with good humour. “ By 
mine honour,” he said, “ thou hast reason on thy side, 
good juvenal — nevertheless, I spoke not as in ridicule of 
the roof which relieves me, but rather in your own 
praise, to whom, if this roof be native, thou may’st nev- 
ertheless rise from its lowliness ; even as the lark, which 
maketh its humble nest in the furrow, ascendeth towards 


THE monastery. 


191 


the sun, as well as the eagle which buildeth her eyry in 
the cliff.” 

This high-flown discourse was interrupted by Dame 
Glendinning, who, with all the busy anxiety of a mother, 
was loading her son’s trencher with food, and dinning 
in his ear her reproaches on account of his prolonged 
absence. “ And see,” she said, “ that you do not one 
day get such a sight while you are walking about among 
the haunts of them that are not of our flesh and bone, as 
befell Mungo Murray when he slept on the greensward- 
ring of the Auld Kirkhill at sunset, and wakened at day- 
break in the wild hills of Breadalbane. And see that 
when you are looking for deer, the red stag does not gaul 
you as it did Diccon Thorburn, who never overcast the 
wound that he took from a buck’s horn. And see, when 
you go swaggering about with a long broad-sword by 
your side, whilk it becomes no peaceful man to do, that 
you dinna meet with them that have broad-sword and 
lance both — there are enow of rank riders in this land 
that neither fear God nor regard man.” 

Here her eye “ in a fine frenzy rolling,” fell full upon 
that of Christie of the Clint-bill, and at once her fears for 
having given offence interrupted the current of maternal 
rebuke, which, like rebuke matrimonial, may be often 
better meant than timed. There was something of sly 
and watchful significance in Christie’s eye, an eye grey, 
keen, fierce, yet wily, formed to express at once cunning 
and malice, which made the dame instantly conjecture she 
had said too much, while she saw in imagination her 
twelve goodly cows go lowing down the glen in a moon- 
light night, with half a score of Border spearman at their 
heels. 

Her voice, therefore, sunk from the elevated tone of 
maternal authority into a whimpering apologetic sort of 
strain, and she proceeded to say, “ It is no that I have 
ony ill thoughts of the Border riders, for Tibb Tacket 
there has often heard me say that I thought spear and 
bridle as natural to a Border-man as a pen to a priest. 


192 


THE MOIfASTERY. 


or a feather-fan to a lady; and— have you not heard me 
say it, Tibb ?” 

Tibb showed something less than her expected alacri- 
ty in attesting her mistress’s deep respect for the free- 
booters of the southland hills ; but, thus conjured, did 
at length reply, “ Hout ay, mistress, Fse warrant 1 have 
heard you say something like that.” 

“ Mother !” said Halbert, in a firm and commanding 
tone of voice, “ what or whom is it that you fear under my 
father’s roof — I well hope that it harbours not a guest in 
whose presence you are afraid to say your pleasure to 
me or my brother ? I am sorry I have been detained 
so late, being ignorant of the fair company which I should 
encounter on my return. — I pray you let this excuse 
suffice : and what satisfies you, will, I trust, be nothing 
less than exceptable to your guests.” 

An answer calculated so justly betwixt the submission 
due to his parent, and the natural feeling of dignity in 
one who was by birth master of the mansion, excited 
universal satisfaction. And as Elspeth herself confessed 
to Tibb on the same evening, “ She did not think it had 
been in the callant. Till that night, he took pets and 
passions if he was spoke to, and lap through the house 
like a four-year-auld at the least word of advice that was 
minted at him, but now he spoke as grave and as douce 
as the Lord Abbot himself. She kendna,” she said, 
“ what might be the upshot of it, but it was like he was 
a wonderful callant even now.” 

The party then separated, the young men retiring 
to their apartments, the elder to their household cares. 
While Christie went to see his horse properly accommo- 
dated, Edward betook himself to his book, and Halbert, 
who was as ingenious in employing his hands as he had 
hitherto appeared imperfect in mental exertion, applied 
himself to constructing a place of concealment in the 
floor of his apartment by raising a plank, beneath which 
he resolved to deposite that copy of the Holy Scriptures 
which had been so strangely regained from the possession 
of men and spirits. 


THE MOXASTERT. 


193 


In the meanwhile, Sir Piercie Shafton sat still as a 
stone in the chair in which he had deposited himself, his 
hands folded on his breast, his legs stretched straight out 
before him and resting upon the heels, his eyes cast up to 
the ceiling as if he had meant to count every mesh of 
every cobweb with which the arched roof was canopied, 
wearing at the same time a face of as solemn and imper- 
turbable gravity, as if his existence had depended on the 
accuracy of his calculation. 

He could scarce be roused from his listless state of 
contemplative absorption so as to take some supper, a 
meal at which the younger females appeared not. Sir 
Piercie stared around twice or thrice as if he missed 
something ; but he asked not for them, and only evinced 
his sense of a proper audience being wanting, by his ab- 
straction and absence of mind, seldom speaking until he 
was twice addressed, and then replying, without trope 
or figure, in that plain English, which nobody could speak 
better when he had a mind. 

Christie, finding himself in undisturbed possession of 
the conversation, indulged all who chose to listen with 
details of his own wild and inglorious warfare, while 
Dame Elspeth’s curch bristled with horror, and Tibb 
Tacket, rejoiced to find herself once more in the com- 
pany of a jack-man, listened to his tales, like Desdemona 
to Othello’s, with undisguised delight. Meantime the 
two young Glendinnings were each wrapped up in his 
own reflections, and only interrupted in them by the 
signal to move bedward. 

17 VOL. I. 


194 


THE MONASTERY. 


CHAPTER XV. 


He strikes no coin ^is true, but coins new phrases, 

And vends them forth as knaves vend gilded counters, 

Which wise men scorn, and fools accept in payment. 

Old Play. 

In the morning, Christie of the Clint-hill was nowhere 
to be seen. As this worthy personage did seldom pique 
himself on sounding a trumpet before his movements, no 
one was surprised at his moon-light departure, though 
some alarm was excited lest he had not made it empty- 
handed. So, in the language of the national ballad, 

Some ran to cupboard, and some to kist. 

But nought was gone that could be mist. 

All was in order, the key of the stable left above the 
door, and that of the iron grate in the inside of the 
lock. In short, the retreat had been made with scrupu- 
lous attention to the security of the garrison, and so far 
Christie left them nothing to complain of. 

The safety of the premises was ascertained by Halbert, 
who instead of catching up a gun or a cross-bow, and 
sallying out for the day as had been his frequent custom, 
now, with a gravity beyond his years, took a survey of 
all around the tower, and then returned to the spence, 
or public apartment, in which, at the early hour of seven, 
the morning-meal was prepared. 

There he found the Euphuist in the same elegant pos- 
ture of abstruse calculation which he had exhibited on 
the preceding evening, his arms folded in the same angle, 
his eyes turned up to the same cobwebs, and his heels 
resting on the ground as before. Tired of this affecta- 
tion of indolent importance, and not much flattered with 
his guest’s persevering in it to the last, Halbert resolved 


THE MONASTERY. 


195 


at once to break the ice, being determined to know what 
circumstances had brought to the Tower of Glendinning 
a guest at once so supercilious and so silent. 

“ Sir Knight,” he said with some firmness, “ I have 
twice given you good morning, to which the absence of 
your mind hath, 1 presume, prevented you from yielding 
attention or from making return. This exchange of cour- 
tesy is at your pleasure to give or withhold — But, as what 
I have farther to say concerns your comfort and your 
motions in an especial manner, I will entreat you to give 
me some signs of attention, that I may be sure I am not 
wasting my words on a monumental image.” 

At this unexpected address, Sir Piercie Shafton open- 
ed his eyes, and afforded the speaker a broad stare ; 
but, as Halbert returned the glance without either con- 
fusion or dismay, the knight thought proper to change 
his posture, draw in his legs, raise his eyes, fix them 
on young Glendinning, and assume the appearance of 
one who listens to what is said to him. Nay, to make 
his purpose more evident, he gave voice to his resolution 
in these words, “ Speak ! we do hear.” 

“ Sir Knight,” said the youth, “ it is the custom of 
this Halidome, or patrimony of St. Mary’s, to trouble 
with inquiries no guests who receive our hospitality, pro- 
viding, they tarry in our house only for a single revolu- 
tion of the sun. We know that both criminals and debt- 
ors come hither for sanctuary, and we scorn to extort 
from the pilgrim, whom chance may make our guest, an 
avowal of the cause of his pilgrimage and penance.^ But 
when one so high above our rank as yourself. Sir Knight, 
and especially one to whom the possession of such pre- 
eminence is not indifferent, shows his determination to be 
our guest for a longer time, it is our usage to inquire of 
him whence he comes, and what is the cause of his 
journey ?” 

The English knight gaped twice or thrice before he 
answered, and then replied in a bantering tone, “Truly, 
good villagio, your question hath in it somewhat of em- 
barrassment, for vou ask me of things concerning which 


196 


THE MONASTERY. 


I am not as yet altogether determined what answer I may 
find it convenient to make. Let it suffice thee, kind Ju- 
venal, that thou hast the Lord Abbot’s authority for treat- 
ing me to the best of that power of thine, which, indeed, 
may not always so well suffice for my accommodation as 
either of us would desire.” 

‘‘ I must have a more precise answer than this, Sir 
Knight,” said the young Glendinning. 

“ Friend,” said the knight, “ be not outrageous. It 
may suit your northern manners thus to press harshly upon 
the secrets of thy betters ; but believe me, that even as 
the lute, struck by an unskilful hand, doth produce dis- 
cords, so” At this moment the door of the apartment 

opened; and Mary Avenel presented herself — “ But who 
can talk of discords,” said the knight, assuming his com- 
plimentary vein and humour, “ when the soul of har- 
mony descends upon us in the presence of surpassing 
beauty ! For even as foxes, wolves, and other animals 
void of sense and reason, do fly from the presence of 
the resplendent sun of heaven when he arises in his 
glory, so do strife, wrath, and all ireful passions retreat, 
and as it were scud away, from the face which now 
beams upon us, with power to compose our angry pas- 
sions, illuminate our errors and difficulties, soothe our 
wounded minds, and lull to rest our disorderly appre- 
hensions ; for as the heat and warmth of the eye of day 
is to the material and physical world, so is the eye which 
I now bow down before to that of the intellectual mic- 
rocosm.” 

He concluded with a profound bow ; and Mary Ave- 
nel, gazing from one to the other, and plainly seeing that 
something was amiss, could only say, “ For heaven’s 
sake, what is the meaning of this .^” 

The newly-acquired tact and intelligence of her foster- 
brother was as yet insufficient to enable him to give ar 
answer. He was quite uncertain how he ought to deal 
with a guest, who, preserving a singularly high tone of 
assumed superiority and importance, seemed nevertheless 
so little serious in what he said, that it was quite impos- 


THE MONASTERY. 


197 


sible to discern with accuracy whether he was in jest 
or earnest. 

Forming, however, the internal resolution to bring Sir 
Piercie Shafton to a reckoning at a more fit place and 
season, he resolved to prosecute the matter no farther 
at present ; and the entrance of his mother with the dam- 
sel of the Mill, and the return of the honest Miller from 
the stack-yard, where he had been numbering and calcu- 
lating the probable amount of the season’s grist, render- 
ed farther discussion impossible for the moment. 

In the course of the calculation it could not but strike 
the man of meal and grindstones, that, after the church’s 
dues were paid, and after all which he himself could by 
any means deduct from the crop, still the residue which 
must revert to Dame Glendinning could not be less than 
considerable. I wot not if this led the honest Miller to 
nourish any plans similar to those adopted by Elspetb ; 
but it is certain that he accepted with grateful alacrity an 
invitation which the dame gave to his daughter, to re- 
main a week or two as her guest at Glendearg. 

The principal persons being thus in high good humour 
with each other, all business gave place to the hilarity of 
the morning repast ; and so much did Sir Piercie appear 
gratified by the attention which was paid to every word 
that he uttered by the nut-brown Mysie, that, notwith- 
standing his high birth and distinguished quality, he be- 
stowed on her some of the more ordinary and second- 
rate tropes of his elocution. 

Mary Avenel, when relieved from the awkwardness 
of feeling the full w^eight of his conversation addressed 
to herself, enjoyed it much more ; and the good knight 
encouraged by those conciliating marks of approbation 
from the sex, for whose sake he cultivated his oratorical 
talents, mad^ speedy intimation of his purpose to be more 
communicative than he had shown himself in his con- 
versation with Halbert Glendinning, and gave them to 
understand, that it was in consequence of some pressing 
danger that he was at present their involuntary guest. 

17 * VOL. I. 


198 


THE MONASTERY. 


The conclusion of the breakfast was a signal for the 
separation of the company. The Miller went to prepare 
for his departure ; his daughter to arrange matters for 
her unexpected stay ; Edward was summoned to con- 
sultation by Martin concerning some agricultural matter, 
in which Halbert could not be brought to interest him- 
self ; the dame left the room upon her household con- 
cerns, and Mary was in the act of following her, when 
she suddenly recollected, that if she did so, the strange 
knight and Halbert must be left alone together, at the 
risk of another quarrel. 

The maiden no sooner observed this circumstance, 
than she instantly returned from the door of the apart- 
ment, and, seating herself in a small stone window-seat, 
resolved to maintain that curb which she was sensible her 
presence imposed on Halbert Glendinning, of whose quick 
temper she had some apprehensions. 

The . stranger marked her motions, and, either inter- 
preting them as inviting his society, or obedient to those 
laws of gallantry which permitted him not to leave a lady 
in silence and solitude, he instantly placed himself near 
to her side, and opened the conversation as follows : 

“ Credit me, fair lady,” he said, addressing Mary 
Avenel, “ it much rejoiceth me, being as I am a banish- 
ed man from the delights of mine own country, that I 
shall find here, in this obscure and sylvan cottage of the 
north, a fair form and a candid soul, with whom I may 
explain my mutual sentiments. And let me pray you in 
particular, lovely lady, that, according to the universal 
custom now predominant in our court, the garden of 
superior wits, you will exchange with me some epithet 
whereby you may mark my devotion to your service. 
Be henceforward named, for example, my Protection, 
and let me be your Affability.” 

“ Our northern and country manners. Sir Knight, do 
not permit us to exchange epithets with those to whom 
we are strangers,” replied Mary Avenel. 

“ Nay, but see now,” said the knight, “ how you are 
startled ! even as the unbroken steed which swerves aside 


THE MONASTERY. 


199 


from the shaking of a handkerchief, though he must in 
time encounter the waving of a pennon. This courtly 
exchange of epithets of honour, is no more than the com- 
pliments wliich pass between Valour and Beauty, wher- 
ever they meet, and under whatever circumstances. 
Elizabeth of England herself calls Philip Sidney her 
Courage, and he in return calls that princess his Inspi-' 
ration. Wherefore, my fair Protection, for by such 
pithet it shall be mine to denominate you ” 

“ Not without the young lady’s consent, sir ?” inter- 
rupted Halbert ; “ most truly do J hope your courtly and 
quaint breeding will not so far prevail over the more or- 
dinary rules of civil behaviour.” 

“ Fair tenant of an indifferent copyhold,” replied the 
knight, with the same coolness and civility of mien, but 
in a tone somewhat more lofty than he used to the young 
lady, “ we do not, in the southern parts, much inter- 
mingle discourse, save with those with whom we may 
stand on some footing of equality ; and I must, in all dis- 
cretion remind you, that the necessity which makes us 
inhabitants of the same cabin, doth not place us otherwise 
on a level with each other.” 

“ By Saint Mary,” replied young Glendinning, “ it is 
my thought that it does ; for plain men hold, that he who 
asks the shelter is indebted to him who gives it ; and 
so far, therefore, is our rank equalized while this roof 
covers us both.” 

“ Thou art altogether deceived,” answered Sir Pier- 
cie ; “ and that thou mayst fully adapt thyself to our 
relative condition, know that I account not myself thy 
guest, but that of thy master, the Lord Abbot of St. Ma- 
ry’s, who, for reasons best known to himself and me, 
chooseth to administer his hospitality to me through the 
means of thee, his servant and vassal, who art therefore 
in good truth, as passive an instrument of my accommo- 
dation as this ill-made and rugged joint-stool on which I 
sit, or as the wooden trencher from which I eat my 
coarse commons. Wherefore,” he added, turning to 


200 


THE MONASTERY. 


Mary, “ fairest mistress, or rather as I said before, most 
lovely Protection”* 

Mary Avenel was about to reply to him, when the stern, 
fierce, and resentful expression of voice and countenance 
with which Halbert exclaimed, “ Not from the King of 
Scotland, did he live, would I brook such terms !” induced 
her to throw herself between him and the stranger, exclaim- 
ing, “ For God’s sake. Halbert, beware what you do !” 

“ Fear not, fairest Protection,” replied Sir Piercie, 
with the utmost serenity, “ that I can be provoked by 
this rustical and mistaught juvenal to do aught misbe- 
coming your presence or mine own dignity ; lor as soon 
shall the gunner’s linstock give fire unto the icicle, as the 
spark of passion inflame my blood, tempered as it is to 
serenity by the respect due to the presence of my gra- 
cious Protection.” 

“ You may well call her your protection. Sir Knight,” 
said Halbert ; “ by Saint Andrew, it is the only sensible 
word I have heard you speak ! but we may meet where 
her protection shall no longer afford you shelter.” 

“ Fairest Protection,” continued the courtier, not even 
honouring with a look, far less with a direct reply, the 
threat of the incensed Halbert, “ doubt not that tby faith- 
ful Affability will be more commoved by the speech of 
this rudesby, than the bright and serene moon is perturb- 
ed by the baying of the cottage-cur, proud of the height 


* There are many instances to be met with in the ancient dramasoflhis whim- 
sical and conceited custom of persons who formed an intimacy, distins'uishing 
eacli other by some cjuaint epithet. In Er^ry Man md of his Humour, tliere is 
a humorous d(*bate upon names most fit to bind the relation betwixt Sogliardo 
and Cavaliero Shift, which ends by adopting those of Countenance and Keso- 
lution. What is more to the point is in the speech of Hedon, a voluptuary and 
a courtier in Cynthia^ Revels. “ You know that 1 call Madam Philantia my 
Honour, and she calls me her Ambition. Now, when I meet her in the pres- 
ence, anon, I will come to her and say, ' Sweet Honour, 1 have hitherto con- 
tented my sense with the lilies of your hand, but now I will taste the roses of 
your lip.' To which she cannot but blushing answer, ' Nay, now you are too 
ambitious and then do 1 reply, ‘ I cannot be too ambitious of Honour, sweet 
lady.’ Wilt not be good ?” — I think there is some remnant of this foppery 
preserved in masonic lodges, where each brother is distinguished by a name 
ui the Imdge, signifying some abstract quality, as Discretion, or the like. See 
the poems of Gavin Wilson. 


THE MONASTERY. 


201 


of his own dung-hill, which, in his conceit, lifteth him 
nearer unto the majestic luminary.” 

To what lengths so unsavoury a simile might have 
driven Halbert’s indignation, is left uncertain ; for at that 
moment Edward rushed into the apartment with the in- 
telligence that two most important officers of the Con- 
vent, the Kitchener and Refectioner, were just arrived 
with a sumpter-mule, loaded with provisions, announcing 
that the Lord Abbot, the Sub-Prior, and the Sacristan, 
were on their way thither. A circumstance so very ex- 
traordinary had never been recorded in the annals of 
St. Mary’s, or in the traditions of Glendearg, though there 
was a faint legendary reportthatacertain Abbot had dined 
there in old, days, after having been bewildered in a hunt- 
ing expedition amongst the wilds which lie to the north- 
ward. But that the present Lord Abbot should have 
taken a voluntary journey to so wild and dreary a spot, 
the very Kamschatka of the Halidome, was a thing never 
dreamt of, and the news excited the greatest surprise in 
all the members of the family, saving Halbert alone. 

This fiery youth was too full of the insult he had re- 
ceived to think of any thing as unconnected with it. “ I 
am glad of it,” he exclaimed ; “ I am glad the Abbot 
comes hither. I will know of him by what right this 
stranger is sent hither to domineer over us under our 
father’s roof, as if we were slaves and not freemen. 1 
will tell the proud priest to his beard” 

“ Alas, alas ! my brother,” said Edward, “ think what 
these words may cost thee!” 

‘‘ And what will, or wffiat can they cost me,” said 
Halbert, “ that I should sacrifice my human feelings and 
my justifiable resentment to the fear of what the Abbot 
can do 

“ Our mother — our mother !” exclaimed Edward ; 
“ think, if she is deprived of her home, expelled from 
her property, how can you amend what your rashness 
may ruin 

“ It is too true, by Heaven!” said Halbert, striking bis 
forehead. Then, stamping his foot against the floor to 


202 


THE MONASTERY. 


express the full energy of the passion to which he dared no 
longer give vent, he turned round and left the apartment. 

Mary Avenel looked at the stranger knight, while she 
was endeavouring to frame a request that he vvould not 
report the intemperate violence of her foster-brother to 
the prejudice of his family, in the mind of the Abhot. 
But Sir Piercie, the very pink of courtesy, conjectured 
her meaning from her embarrassment, and waited not to 
be entreated. 

“ Credit me, fairest Protection,” said he, “ your Af- 
fability is less than capable of seeing or hearing, far less 
of reciting or reiterating, aught of an unseemly nature 
which may have chanced while I enjoyed the Elysium 
of your presence. The winds of idle pa^on may in- 
deed rudely agitate the bosom of the rude ; but the heart 
of the courtier is polished to resist them. As the frozen 
lake receives not the influence of the breeze,even so” 

The voice of Dame Glendinning, in shrill summons, 
here demanded Mary Avenel’s attendance, who instantly 
obeyed, not a little glad to escape from the compliments 
and similes of this court-like gallant. Nor was it appar- 
ently less a relief on his part ; for no sooner was she 
past the threshold of the room, than he exchanged the 
look of formal and elaborate politeness which had accom- 
panied each word he had uttered hitherto, for an expres- 
sion of the utmost lassitude and ennui ; and after indulg- 
ing in one or two portentous yawns, broke forth into a 
soliloquy. 

“ What the foul fiend sent this wench hither ? As if 
it were not sufficient plague to be harboured in a hovel 
that would hardly serve for a dog’s kennel in England, 
baited by a rude peasant-boy, and dependent on the faith 
of a mercenary ruffian, but I cannot even have time to 
muse over my own mishap, but must come aloft, frisk, 
fidget, and make speeches to please this pale hectic phan- 
tom, because she has gentle blood in her veins ! By mine 
honour, setting prejudice aside, the mill-wench is the 
more attractive of the two — But patienza, Piercie Shaf- 
tonjthou must not lose thy well-earned claim to be ac- 


THE MONASTERY. 


203 


counted a devout servant of the fair sex, a witty-brained, 
prompt, and accomplished courtier. Rather thank Hea- 
ven, Piercie Shafton, which hath ?ent thee a subject, 
wherein, without derogating from thy rank, (since the 
honours of the Avenel family are beyond dispute) thou 
may’st find a whetstone for thy witty compliments, a 
strop whereon to sharpen thine acute ingine, a butt where- 
at to shoot the arrows of thy gallantry. For even as a 
Bilboa blade, the more it is rubbed the brighter and the 

sharper will it prove, so But what need I waste my 

stock of similitudes in holding converse with myself.^ — 
Yonder comes the^rnonkish retinue, like some half score 
of crows wining thefr way slowdy up the valley — I hope, 
a’gad, they Have not forgotten my trunk-mails of apparel 
amid the ample provision they have made for their own 
belly-timber — Mercy, a’gad, I were finely helped up if the 
vesture has miscarried among the thievish Borderers !” 

Stung by this reflection, he ran hastily dow n stairs, and 
caused his horse to be saddled, that he-nfight, as soon as 
possible, ascertain this important point, by meeting the 
Lord Abbot and his retinue as they came up the glen. 
He had not ridden a» mile before he met them advancing 
with the slowness alid. decorum which became persons 
of their dignity and profession. The knight failed not to 
greet the Lord Abbot with all the formal compliments 
with which men of rank at that period exchanged cour- 
tesies. He had the good fortune to find that his mails 
were numbered among the train of baggage which at- 
tended upon the party ; and, satisfied in that particular, 
be turned his horse’s head, and accompanied the Abbot 
to the tower of Glendearg. 

Great, in the meanwhile, had been the turmoil of the 
good Dame Elspeth and her coadjutors, to prepare for 
the fitting reception of the Father Lord Abbot and his 
retinue. The monks had indeed taken care not to trust 
too much to the state of her pantry, but she was not the 
less anxious to make such additions as might enable her 
to claim the thanks of her feudal lord and spiritual fa- 
ther. Meeting Halbert as wiih his blood on fire, he re- 


204 


THE MOIfASTERY. 


turned from his altercation with her guest, she command- 
ed him instantly to go forth to the hill, and not to return 
without venison ; reminding him that he was apt enough 
to go thither for his own pleasure, and must now do so for 
the credit of the house. 

The Miller, who was now hastening his journey home- 
wards, promised to send up some salmon by his own ser- 
vant. Dame Elspeth, who by this time thought she had 
guests enough, had begun to repent of her invitation to 
poor Mysie, and was just considering by what means, 
short of giving offence, she could send off the Maid of 
the Mill behind her father, and adjourn all her own aerial 
architecture till some future opportunity, when this unex- 
pected generosity on the part of the sire rendered any 
present attempt to return his daughter on his hands, too 
highly ungracious to be further thought on. So the Mil- 
ler departed alone on his homeward journey. 

Dame Elspeth’s sense of hospitality proved in this in- 
stance its own reward ; for Mysie had dwelt too near the 
convent to be altogether ignorant of the noble art of 
cookery, which her father patronized to the extent of 
consuming on festival days such dainties as his daughter 
could prepare in emulation of the luxuries of the Abbot’s 
kitchen. Laying aside, therefore, her holiday kirtle, and 
adopting a dress more suitable to the occasion, the good- 
humoured maiden bared her snowy arms above the 
elbows ; and, as Elspeth acknowledged, in the language 
of the time and country, took “ entire and aefauld part 
with her” in the labours of the day ; showing unparal- 
leled talent, and indefatigable industry, in the preparation 
of mortreux, hlanc-manger, and heaven knows what del- 
icacies besides, which Dame Glendinning, unassisted by 
her skill, dared not even have dreamt of presenting. 

Leaving this able substitute in the kitchen, and regret- 
ting that Mary Avenel was so brought up, that she could 
intrust nothing to her care, unless it might be seeing the 
great chamber strewed with rushes, and ornamented with 
such flowers and branches as the season afforded. Dame 
Elspeth hastily donned her best attire, and with a beat 


TliE MOXASTERT. 


205 


ing heart presented herself at the door of her little tow- 
er, to make her obeisance to the Lord Abbot as he cross- 
ed her humble threshold. Edward stood by his mother, 
and felt the same palpitation, which his philosophy was 
at a loss to account for. He was yet to learn how long 
it is ere our reason is enabled to triumph over the force of 
external circumstances, and how much our feelings are 
affected by novelty, and blunted by use ^nd habit. 

On the present occasion, he witnessed with wonder 
and awe the approach of some half-score of riders, 
sober men upon sober palfreys, muffled in their long black 
garments, and only relieved by their white scapularies, 
showing more like a funeral procession than aught else, 
and not quickening their pace beyond that which permit- 
ted easy conversation and easy digestion. The sobriety 
of the scene was indeed somewhat enlivened by the pres- 
ence of Sir Piercie Shafton, who, to show that his skill 
in the menage was not inferior to his other accomplish- 
ments, kept alternately pressing and checking his gay 
courser, forcing him to piaffe, to caracole, to passage, and 
to do all the other feats of the school, to the great an- 
noyance of the Lord Abbot, the wonted sobriety of whose 
palfrey became at length discomposed by the vivacity of 
its companion, while the dignitary kept crying out in bod- 
ily alarm, “ I do pray you, sir — Sir Knight — good now. 
Sir Piercie — Be quiet, Benedict, there is a good steed 
— soil, poor fellow !” and uttering all the other precatory 
and soothing exclamations by which a timid horseman 
usually bespeaks the favour of a frisky companion, or of 
his own unquiet nag, and concluding the bead-roll with a 
sincere Deo gratias so soon as he alighted in the court- 
yard of the tower of Glendearg. 

The inhabitants unanimously knelt down to kiss the 
hand of the Lord Abbot, a ceremony which even the 
monks were often condemned to. Good Abbot Boniface 
was too much fluttered by the incidents of the latter part 
of his journey, to go through this ceremony with much 
solemnity, or indeed with much patience. He kept 
IS VOL. I. 


206 


THE MONASTERY* 


wiping his brow with a snow-white handkerchief with 
one hand, while another was abandoned to the homage 
of his vassals 5 and then signing the cross with his out- 
stretched arm, and exclaiming, “ Bless ye — bless ye, my 
children !” he hastened into the house and murmured 
not a little at the darkness and steepness of the rugged 
winding stair, whereby he at length scaled the spence 
destined for his entertainment, and, overcome with fatigue, 
threw himself, I do not say into an easy chair, but into 
the easiest the apartment afforded. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


A courtier extraordinary, who by diet 
Of meats and drinks, his temperate exercise, 

Choice music, frequent bath, his horaryshifts 
Of shirts and waistcoats, means to immortalize 
Mortality itself, and makes the essence 
Of his whole happiness the trim of court. 

Magnetic Lady. 


When the Lord Abbot had suddenly and supercilious- 
ly vanished from the eyes of his expectant vassals, the 
Sub-Prior made amends for the negligence of his prin- 
cipal, by the kind and affectionate greeting which he gave 
to all the members of the family, but especially to Dame 
Elspeth, her foster-daughter, and her son Edward. 
“ Where,” he even condescended to inquire, “ is that 
naughty Nimrod, Halbert ^ — He hath not yet, I trust, 
turned, like his great prototype, his hunting-spear against 
man ?” 

“ O no, an it please your reverence,” said Dame 
Glendinning, ‘‘ Halbert is up the glen to get some veni- 
son, or surely he would not have been absent when such 
a day of honour dawned upon me and mine ” 


THE MONASTERY. 


207 


‘‘ O, to get savoury meat such as our soul loveth,” 
muttered the Sub-Prior, “ it has been at times an ac- 
ceptable gift. — I bid you good morrow, my good dame, 
as 1 must attend upon his lordship the Father Abbot.” 

“ And O, reverend sir,” said the good widow, detain- 
ing him, “ if it might be your pleasure to take part with 
us if there is any thing wrong ; and if there is any thing 
wanted, to say that it is just coming, or to make some 
excuses your learning best knows how. Every bit of 
vassail and silver work have we been spoiled of since 
Pinkie Cleuch, when I lost poor Simon Glendinning, 
that was the warst of a’.” 

“ Never mind — never fear,” said the Sub-Prior, 
gently extricating his garment from the anxious grasp of 
Dame Elspeth, “ the Refectioner has with him the Ab- 
bot’s plate and drinking cups ; and I pray you to believe 
that whatever is short in your entertainment will be deem- 
ed amply made up in your good-will.” 

So saying, he escaped from her and went into the 
spence, where such preparations as haste permitted were 
making for the noon collation of the Abbot and the Eng- 
lish knight. Here he found the Lord Abbot, for whom 
a cushion, composed of all the plaids in the house, had 
been unable to render Simon’s huge elbow-chair a soft 
or comfortable place of rest. 

“ Benedicite !” said Abbot Boniface, “ now marry 
fie upon these hard benches with all my heart — they are 
as uneasy as the scabella of our novices. Saint Jude be 
with us. Sir Knight, how have you contrived to pass over 
the night in this dungeon ^ An your bed was no softer 
than your seat, you might as well have slept on the stone 
couch of Saint Pacomius. After trotting a full ten miles, 
a man needs a softer seat than has fallen to my hard lot.” 

With sympathizing faces, the Sacristan and the Re- 
fectioner ran to raise the Lord Abbot, and to adjust his 
seat to his mind, which was at length accomplished in 
some sort, although he continued alternately to bewail his 
fatigue, and to exult in the conscious sense of having 
discharged an arduous duty. “ You errant cavaliers, 


208 


THE MONASTERY. 


said he, addressing the knight, “ may now perceive that 
others have their travail and their toils to undergo as well 
as your honoured faculty. And this 1 will say for my- 
self and the soldiers of Saint Mary, among whom I 
may be termed captain, that it is not our wont to flinch 
from the heat of the service, or to withdraw from the 
good fight. No, by Saint Mary ! — no sooner did I learn 
that you were here, and dared not, for certain reasons, 
come to the Monastery, where, with as good will, and 
with more convenience, we might have given you a better 
reception, than, striking the table with my hammer, I 
called a brother — Timothy, said J, let them saddle Ben- 
edict — let them saddle my black palfrey, and bid the 
Sub-Prior and some half-score of attendants be in read- 
iness to-morrow after matins — we would ride to Glen- 
dearg. — Brother Timothy stared, thinking, I imagine, 
that his ears had scarce done him justice — but I repeal- 
ed my commands, and said. Let the Kitchener and Re- 
fectloner go before, to aid the poor vassals to whom the 
place belongs, in making a suitable collation. - So that 
you will consider, good Sir Piercie, our mutual incom- 
modities, and forgive whatever you may find amiss.” 

‘‘ By my faith,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “ there is 
nothing to forgive — If you spiritual warriors have to sub- 
mit to the grievous incommodities which your lordship 
narrates, it would ill become me, a sinful and secular 
man, to complain of a bed as hard as a board, of broth 
which relished as if made of burnt wool, of flesh which, 
in its sable and singed shape, seemed to put me on a 
level with Richard Cosur-de-Lion, when he eat up the 
head of a Moor carbonadoed, and of other viands sa- 
vouring rather of the rusticity of this northern region.” 

“ By the good saints, sir,” said the Abbot, somewhat 
touched in point of his character for hospitality, of which 
he was in truth a most faithful and zealous professor, ‘‘ it 
grieves me to the heart that you have found our vassals 
no better provided for your reception — Yet [ crave leave 
to observe, that if Sir Piercie Shafton’s affairs had per- 
mitted him to honour with his company our poor house 


THE MOJ^ASTERY. 


209 


of St. Mary’s, he might have had less to complain of 
in respect of easements.” 

“ To give your lordship the reasons,” said Sir Piercie 
Shafton, “ why I could not, at this present time, approach 
your dwelling, or avail myself of its well-known and un- 
doubted hospitality, craves either some delay, or,” look- 
ing around him, “ a limited audience.” 

The Lord Abbot immediately issued his mandate to 
the Refectioner : “ Hie thee to the kitchen, brother 
Hilaries, and there make inquiry of our brother the Kitch- 
ener, within what time he opines that our collation may 
be prepared, since sin and sorrow it were, considering 
the hardships of this noble and gallant knight, no whit 
mentioning or weighing those we ourselves have endur- 
ed, if we were now either to advance or retard the hour 
of refection beyond the time when the viands are fit to 
be set before us.” 

Brother Hilaries parted with an eager alertness to ex- 
ecute the will of his superior, and returned with the as- 
surance, that punctually at one after noon would the col- 
lation be ready. 

“ Before that time,” said the accurate Refectioner, 
“ the w’afers, flamms, and pastry-meat will scarce have 
had the just degree of fire, which learned pottingers 
prescribe as fittest for the body ; and if it should be past 
one o’clock, were it but ten minutes, our brother the 
Kitchener opines, that the haunch of venison would suf- 
fer, in spite of the skill of the little lurn-broche whom he 
has recommended to your holiness by his praises.” 

“ How !” said the Abbot, “ a haunch of venison ! — 
from whence comes that dainty ? I remember not 
thou didst intimate its presence in thy hamper of vivers.” 

“ So please your holiness and lordship,” said the Re- 
fectioner ; “ he is a son of the woman of the house who 
hath shot it and sent it in — killed but now ; yet, as the 
animal-heat hath not left the body, the Kitchener under- 
takes it shall eat as tender as a young chicken — and 
this youth hath a special gift in shooting deer, and never 
18 * VOL. I. 


210 


THE MONASTERY. 


misses the heart or the brain ; so that the blood is not 
driven through the flesh, as happens too often with us. 
It is a hart of grease — your holiness has seldom seen 
such a haunch.” 

“ Silence, Brother Hilarius,” said the Abbot, wiping 
his mouth, “ it is not beseeming our order to talk of food 
so earnestly, especially as we must oft have our animal 
powers exhausted by fasting, and be accessible (as being 
ever mere mortals) to those signs of longing (he again 
wiped his mouth) which arise on the mention of victuals 
to an hungry man. — Minute down, however, the name 
of that youth — it is fitting merit should be rewarded, and 
he shall hereafter be a frater ad succurrendum in the 
kitchen and buttery.” 

“ Alas ! reverend Father, and my good lord,” repli- 
ed the Refectioner, “ I did inquire after the youth, and 
I learn he is one who prefers the casque to the cowl, 
and the sword of the flesh to the weapons of the spirit.” 

“ And if it be so,” said the Abbot, see that thou 
retain him as a deputy-keeper and man-at-arms, and not 
as a lay brother of the Monastery — for old Tallboy, our 
forester, waxes dim-eyed, and hath twice spoiled a noble 
buck, by hitting him unwarily on the haunch. Ah ! ’tis 
a foul fault, the abusing by evil-killing, evil-dressing, 
evil-appetite, or otherwise, the good creatures indulged 
to us for our use. Wherefore, secure us the service of 
this youth. Brother Hilarius, in the way that may best suit 
him. And now. Sir Piercie Shafton, since the fates have 
assigned us a space of well nigh an hour, ere we dare 
hope to enjoy more than the vapour or savour of our re- 
past, may J pray you, of your courtesy, to tell me the 
cause of this visit ; and, above all, to inform us, why 
you will not approach our more pleasant and better fur- 
nished hospitium ?” 

“ Reverend Father, and my very good lord,” said 
Sir Piercie Shafton, “ it is well known to your wisdom, 
that there are stone walls which have ears, and that se- 
crecy is to be looked to in matters which concern a man’s 
head.” 


THE MONASTERY* 


211 


The Abbot signed to his attendants, excepting the Sub- 
Prior, to leave the room, and then said, “ Your valour. 
Sir Piercie, may freely unburden yourself before our 
faithful friend and counsellor. Father Eustace, the ben- 
efits of whose advice we may too soon lose, inasmuch as 
his merits will speedily recommend him to an higher sta- 
tion, in which, we trust, he may find the blessing of a 
friend and adviser as valuable as himself, since I may say 
f him, as our claustral rhyme goeth,* 

' Dixit Abbas ad prions, 

Tu es homo boni moris. 

Quia semper sanioris 
Mihi das concilia.' 

Indeed,” he added, ‘‘ the office of Sub-Prior is altogeth- 
er beneath our dear brother ; nor can we elevate him 
unto that of Prior, which, for certain reasons, is at pres- 
ent kept vacant amongst us. Howbeit, Father Eustace 
is fully possessed of my confidence, and worthy of 
yours, and well may it be said of him, Intravit in secretis 
nosiris.” 

Sir Piercie Shafton bowed to the reverend brethren, 
and, heaving a sigh, as if he would have burst his steel- 
cuirass, he thus commenced his speech. 

“ Certes, reverend sirs, I may well heave such a sus- 
piration, who have, as it were, exchanged heaven for 
purgatory, leaving the lightsome sphere of the royal court 
of England, for a remote nook in this inaccessible desert 
— quitting the tilt-yard, where I was ever ready among 
my compeers to splinter a lance, either for the love of 
honour, or for the honour of love, in order to couch my 
knightly spear against base and pilfering besognios and 
marauders — exchanging the lighted halls, wherein I used 
nimbly to pace the swift coranto, or to move with a loftier 
grace in the stately galliard, for this rugged and decayed 


* The rest of this doggrel rh^me may be found in Fosbrooke's learned work 
on British Monachism. 


212 


THE MONASTERY. 


dungeon of rusty-coloured stone — quitting the gay thea- 
tre, for the solitary chimney-nook of a Scottish dog- 
house — bartering the sounds of the soul-ravishing lute, 
and the love-awakening viol-de-gamba, for the discordant 
squeak of a northern bagpipe — above all, exchanging 
the smiles of those beauties, who form a galaxy around 
the throne of England, for the cold courtesy of an un- 
taught damsel, and the bewildered stare of a miller’s 
maiden. More might I say, of the exchange of the 
conversation of gallant knights and gay courtiers of mine 
own order and capacity, whose conceits are bright and 
vivid as the lightning, for that of monks and churchmen 
— but it were discourteous to urge that topic.” 

The Abbot listened to this list of complaints with great 
round eyes, which evinced no exact intelligence of the 
orator’s meaning ; and when the knight paused to take 
breath, he looked with a doubtful and inquiring eye at 
the Sub-Prior, not well knowing in what tone he should 
reply to an exordium so extraordinary. The Sub-Prior 
accordingly stepped in to the relief of his principal. 

“ We deeply sympathize with you. Sir Knight, in the 
several mortifications and hardships to which fate has 
subjected you, particularly in that which has thrown you 
into the society of those, who, as they were conscious 
they deserved not such an honour, so neither did they 
at all desire it. But all this goes little way to expound 
the cause of this train of disasters, or, in plainer words, 
the reason which has compelled you into a situation hav- 
ing so few charms for you.” 

“ Gentle and reverend sir,” replied the knight, “ for- 
give an unhappy person, who, in giving a history of his 
miseries, dilateth upon them extremely, even as he who, 
having fallen from a precipice, looketh upward to meas- 
ure the height from which he hath been precipitated.” 

“ Yea, but,” said Father Eustace, “ methinks it were 
wiser in him to tell those who come to lift him up, which 
of his bones have been broken.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


213 


“ You, reverend sir,” said the knight, “ have, in the 
encounter of our wits made a fair attaint ;* whereas I may 
he said in some sort to have broken my staff across. 
Pardon me, pave sir, that I speak the language of the 
tilt-yard, which is doubtless strange to your reverend 
ears. — Ah ! brave resort of the noble, the fair, and the 
gay ! — Ah ! throne of lov'^e, and citadel of honour ! — 
Ah ! celestial beauties, by whose bright eyes it is graced ! 
Never more shall Piercie Shafton advance, as the centre 
of your radiant glances, couch his lance, and spur his 
horse at the sound of the spirit-stirring trumpets, nobly 
called the voice of war — never more shall he baffle his 
adversary’s encounter boldly, break his spear dexterous- 
ly, and ambling around the lovely circle, receive the 
rewards with which beauty honours chivalry !” 

Here he paused, wrung his hands, looked upwards,and 
seemed lost in contemplation of his own fallen fortunes. 

“ Mad, very mad,” w'hispered the Abbot to the Sub- 
Prior ; “ I would we were fairly rid of him, for of s? 
truth, I expect he will proceed from raving to mischief — 
Were it not better to call up the rest of the brethren 

But the Sub-Prior knew better than his Superior how 
to distinguish the jargon of affectation from the ravings 
of insanity ; and, although the extremity of the knight’s 
passion seemed altogether fantastic, yet he was not igno- 
rant to what extravagances the fashion of the day can 
conduct its votaries. 

Allowing, therefore, two minutes space, to permit the 
knight’s enthusiastic feelings to exhaust themselves, he 
again gravely reminded him that the Lord Abbot had 
taken a journey, unwonted to his age and habits, 
solely to learn in what he could serve Sir Piercie Shafton 
— that it w’as altogether impossible he could do so, with- 
out his receiving distinct information of the situation in 


* Attaint was a term of tilting used to express the champion’s having itttaincA 
his mark, or, in other words, struck his lance straight and fair against the hel- 
met, or breast of his adversar}'. Whereas to break the lance across, intimated 
a total failure in directing the point of the weapon on the object of his aim. 


214 


THE MONASTERY. 


which he had now sought refuge in Scotland — The day 
wore on,” he observed, looking at the window ; “ and 
if the Abbot should be obliged to return to the Monaste- 
ry, without obtaining the. necessary intelligence, the re- 
gret might be mutual, but the inconvenience was like to be 
all on SirPiercie’s own side.” 

The hint was not thrown away. 

“ O, goddess of courtesy !” said the knight, “ can I 
have so far forgotten thy behests as to make this good 
Prelate’s ease and time a sacrifice to my vain complaints ! 
Know, then, most worthy, and not less worshipful, that I, 
your poor visiter and guest, am by birth nearly bound to 
the Piercie of Northumberland, whose fame is so widely 
blown through all parts of the world where English 
worth hath been known. Now this present Earl of 
Northumberland, of whom I propose to give you the 
brief history” 

“ It is altogether unnecessary,” said the Abbot ; “ we 
know him to be a good and true nobleman, and a sworn 
upholder of our Catholic faith, in spite of the heretical 
woman who now sits upon the throne of England. And 
it is specially as his kinsman, and as knowing that ye 
partake with him in such devout and faithful belief and 
adherence to our holy mother church, that we say to you, 
Sir Piercie Shafton, that ye be heartily welcome to us, 
and, that an we wist how, we would labour to do you good 
service in your extremity.” 

“ For such kind offer I rest your most humble debtor,” 
said Sir Piercie ; “ nor need I, at this moment, say 
more than that my Right Honourable Cousin of North- 
umberland, having devised with me and some others, the 
choice and picked spirits of the age, how and by what 
means the worship of God, according to the Catholic 
church, might be again introduced into this distracted 
kingdom of England, (even as one deviseth, by the assist- 
ance of his friend, to catch and to bridle a runaway steed,) 
it pleased him so deeply to intrust me in those communi- 
cations, that my personal safety becomes, as it were, en- 
twined or complicated therewith, Natheless, as we have 


THE MONASTERY. 


215 


had sudden reason to believe, this Princess Elizabeth, 
who maintaineth around her a sort of counsellors, skilful 
in tracking whatever schemes may be pursued for bring- 
ing her title into challenge, or for erecting again the dis- 
cipline of the Catholic church, has obtained certain 
knowledge of the trains which we had laid, before we 
could give fire unto them. Wherefore my Right Hon- 
ourable Cousin of Northumberland, thinking it best be- 
like that one man should take both blame and shame 
for the whole, did lay the burden of all this trafficking 
upon my back ; which load I am the rather content to 
bear, m that he hath always shown himself my kind and 
honourable kinsman, as well as that my estate, I wot not 
how, hath of late been somewhat insufficient to maintain 
the expense of those braveries, wherewith it is incumbent 
on us, who are chosen and selected spirits, to distinguish 
ourselves from the vulgar.” 

“ So that possibly,” said the Sub-Prior, “ your private 
affairs rendered a foreign journey less incommodious to 
you than it might have been to the noble earl, your right 
worthy cousin?” 

You are right, reverend sir,” answered the courtier ; 
“ rem acu — you have touched the point with a needle — 
My cost and expenses had been indeed somewhat lavish 
at the late triumphs and tourneys, and the flat-capped 
citizens had shown themselves unwilling to furnish my 
pocket for new gallantries for the honour of the nation, 
as well as for mine own peculiar glory — and, to speak 
truth, it was in some part the hope of seeing these matters 
amended that led me to desire a new world in England.” 

“ So that the miscarriage of your public enterprize, 
with the derangement of your own private affairs,” said 
the Sub-Prior, “ have induced you to seek Scotland as 
a place of refuge?” 

“ Rem acu, once again,” said Sir Piercie ; “ and not 
without good cause, since my neck, if 1 remained, 
might have been brought within the circumstances of an 
halter — and so speedy was my journey northward, that I 
had but time to exchange my peach-coloured doublet of 


216 


THE MO:fASTERY. 


Genoa velvet, thickly laid over with goldsmith’s work, 
for this cuirass, which was made by Bonamico of Milan, 
and travelled northward with all speed, judging that 1 
might do well to visit my Right Honourable Cousin of 
Northumberland at one of his numerous castles. But 
as J posted towards Alnwick, even with the speed of a 
star, which, darting from its native sphere, shoots wildly 
downwards, I was met at Northallerton by one Henrjr 
Vaughan, a servant of my right honourable kinsman, who 
showed me, that as then 1 might not with safety come 
to his presence, seeing that, in obedience to orders from 
his court, he was obliged to issue out letters for my in- 
carceration.” 

“ This,” said the Abbot, “ seems but hard measure 
on the part of your honourable kinsman.” 

“ It might be so judged, my lord,” replied Sir Pier- 
cie ; “ nevertheless I will stand to the death for the hon- 
our of my Riglit Honourable Cousin of Northumberland. 
Also, Henry Vaughan gave me, from my said cousin, a 
good horse, and a purse of gold, with two Border-prick- 
ers, as they are called, for my guides, who conducted 
me, by such roads and by-paths as have never been 
seen since the days of Sir Lancelot and Sir Tristrem, 
into this kingdom of Scotland, and to the house of a 
certain baron, or one who holds the style of such, called 
Julian Avenel, with whom I found such reception as the 
place and party could afford.” 

“ And that,” said the Abbot, ‘‘ must have been right 
wretched ; for, to judge from the appetite which Julian 
showeth when abroad, he hath not, I judge, over-abun- 
dant provision at home.” 

, You are right, sir — your reverence is in the right,” con- 
tinued Sir Piercie ; we had but lenten fare, and, what was 
worse, a score to clear at the departure; for though this Ju- 
lian Avenel called us to no reckoning, yet he did so ex- 
travagantly admire the fashion of my poniard — \hepoignet 
being of silver exquisitely hatched, and indeed the weapon 
being altogether a piece of exceeding rare device and beau- 
ty — that in faith 1 could not for very shame’s sake but 
pray his acceptance of it ; words which he gave me not the 


THE MOXASTERY. 


217 


trouble of repeating twice, before he had stuck it into his 
greasy buff-belt, where, credit rne, reverend sir, it showed 
more like a butcher’s knife than a gentleman’s dagger.” 

“ So goodly a gift might at least have purchased you 
a few days hospitality,” said Father Eustace. 

Reverend sir,” said Sir Piercie, “ had I abidden 
with him, I should have been complimented out of every 
remnant of my wardrobe — actually flayed, by the hos- 
pitable gods I swear it ! Sir, he secured my spare doublet, 
and had a pluck at my galligaskins — I was enforced to beat 
a retreat before I was altogether unrigged. That Border 
knave, his serving-man had a pluck at me too, and usurped 
a scarlet cassock and steel cuirass belonging to the page of 
my body, whom I was fain to leave behind me. In 
good time I received a letter from my right honourable 
cousin, showing me that he had written to you in my 
behalf, and sent to your charge two mails filled with wear- 
ing apparel — namely, my rich crimson silk doublet, 
slashed out and lined with cloth of gold, which I wore 
at the last revels, with baldric and trimmings to corr(;s- 
pond — also two pair black silk slops, with hanging gar- 
ters of carnation silk — also the flesh-coloured silken dou- 
blet, with the trimmings of fur, in which I danced the 
salvage man at the Gray’s-Inn mummery — also” 

“ Sir Knight,” said the Sub-Prior, “ I pray you to 
spare the further inventory of your wardrobe. The 
monks of Saint Mary’s are no free-booting barons, and 
whatever part of your vestments arrived at our 
house, have been this day faithfully brought hither, wnth 
the mails which contained them. I may presume from 
what has been said, as we have indeed been given to un- 
derstand by the Earl of Northumberland, that your de- 
sire is to remain for the present as unknown and as 
unnoticed, as may be consistent with your high worth 
and distinction 

“ Alas, reverend father !” replied the courtier, “ a 
blade when it is in the scabbard cannot give lustre, a dia- 
mond when it is in the casket cannot give light, and 
worth, when it is compelled by circumstances to obscure 

19 VOL. I. 


218 


THE MOXASTERY< 


itself, cannot draw observation — my retreat can only at- 
tract the admiration of those few to whom circumstances 
permit its displaying itself,” 

“ I conceive now, my venerable father and lord,” 
said the Sub-Prior, “ that your wisdom will assign such 
a course of conduct to this noble knight, as may be alike 
consistent with his safety, and with the weal of the com- 
munity. For you wot well, that perilous strides have 
been made in these audacious days, to the destruction of 
all ecclesiastical foundations, and that our holy communi- 
ty has been repeatedly menaced. Hitherto they have 
found no flaw in our raiment ; but a party friendly as well 
to the Queen of England, as to the heretical doctrines 
of the schismatical church, or even to worse and wilder 
forms of heresy, prevails now" at the court of our sov- 
ereign, who dare not yield to her suffering clergy the 
protection she would gladly extend to them.” 

“ My lord, and reverend sir,” said the knight, “ I will 
gladly relieve ye of my presence while ye canvass this 
matter at your freedom ; and to speak truly, I am desir- 
ous to see in what case the chamberlain of my noble kins- 
man hath found my wardrobe, and how he hath packed 
the same, and whether it has suffered from the journey 
— there are four suits of as pure and elegant device as 
ever the fancy of a fair lady doated upon, every one 
having a treble and appropriate change of ribands, trim- 
mings, and fringes, which in case of need, may as it 
were renew each of them, and multiply the four into 
twelve. — There is also my sad-coloured riding-suit, and 
three cut-work shirts with falling bands — 1 pray you, 
pardon me — I must needs see how matters stand with 
them without farther dallying.” 

Thus speaking, he left the room ; and the Sub-Prior, 
looking after him significantly, added, “ Where the 
treasure is will the heart be also.” 

“ Saint Mary preserve our wits !” said the Abbot, 
stunned with the knight’s abundance of words ; “ were 
man’s brains ever so stuffed with silk and broad-cloth, 
cut-work, and I wot not what besides ! And what could 


THE MONASTERY. 


219 


move the Earl of Northumberland to assume for his bo- 
som counsellor, in matters of depth and danger, such a 
feather-brained coxcomb as this !” 

‘‘ Had he been other than what he is, venerable fath- 
er,” said the Sub-Prior, “ he had been less fitted for the 
part of scape-goat, to which his right honourable cousin 
had probably destined him from the commencement in 
case of their plot failing. I know something of this 
Piercie Shafton. The legitimacy of his mother’s de- 
scent from the Piercie family, the point on which he is 
most jealous, hath been called in question. If hair-brain- 
ed courage, and an outrageous spirit of gallantry, can 
make good his pretensions to the high lineage he claims, 
these qualities have never been denied him. For the rest, 
he is one of the ruffling gallants of the time, like Rowland 
Yorke, Stukely,!^ and others, who wear out their fortunes, 
and endanger their lives, in idle braveries, in order that 
they may be esteemed the only choice gallants of the 
time ; and afterwards endeavour to repair their estate, 
by engaging in the desperate plots and conspiracies which 
wiser heads have devised. To use one of his own con- 
ceited similitudes, such courageous fools resemble hawks, 
which the wiser conspirator keeps hooded and blindfold- 
ed on his wrist until the quarry is on the wing, and who 
are then flown at them.” 

“ Saint Mary,” said the Abbot, “ he were an evil 
guest to introduce into our quiet household. Our young 
monks make bustle enough, and more than is beseeming 
God’s servants, about their outward attire already — this 
knight were enough to turn their brains, from the T^esiia- 
rius down to the very scullion boy.” 

“ A worse evil might follow,” said the Sub-Prior : 
“ In these bad days, the patrimony of the church is 
bought and sold, forfeited and distrained, as if it were 
the unhallowed soil appertaining to a secular baron. 
Think what penalty awaits us, were we convicted of har- 
bouring a rebel to her whom they call the Queen of 
England ! There would neither be wanting Scottish 
parasites to beg the lands of the foundation, nor an 


220 


THE MONASTERY. 


army from England to burn and harry the Halidome. 
The men of Scotland were once Scotsmen, firm and 
united in their love of their country, and throwing every 
other consideration aside when the frontier was menaced 
— now they are — what shall I call them — the one part 
French, the Other part English, considering their dear 
native country merely as a prize-fighting stage, upon 
which foreigners are welcome to decide their quarrels.” 

“ Benedicite!” replied the Abbot, “ they are indeed 
slippery and evil times.” 

“And therefore,” said Father Eustace, “we must 
walk warily — we must not, for example, bring this man 
— this Sir Piercie Shafton, to our house of Saint IMary’s.” 

“ But how then shall we dispose of him replied 
the Abbot ; “ bethink thee that he is a sufferer for Holy 
Church’s sake — that his patron, the Earl of Northum- 
berland, hath been our friend, and that, lying so near us, 
he may work us weal or woe according as we deal with 
his kinsman.” 

“ And, accordingly,” said the Sub-Prior, “ for these 
reasons, as well as for discharge of the great duty of 
Christian charity, I would protect and relieve this man. 
Let him not go back to Julian Avenel — that unconscien- 
tious baron would not stick to plunder the exiled stranger 
— Let him remain here — the spot is secluded, and if the 
accommodation be beneath his quality, discovery will 
become the less likely. We will make such means for 
his convenience as we can devise.” 

“ Will he be persuaded, thinkest thou said the Ab- 
bot ; “ I will leave my own travelling bed for his repose, 
and send up a suitable easy-chair.” 

“ With such easements,” said the Sub-Prior, “ he 
must not complain ; and then if threatened by any sud- 
den danger, he can soon come down to the sanctuary, 
where we will harbour him in secret until means can be 
devised of dismissing him in safety.” 

“ Were we not better,” said the Abbot, “ send him 
on to the court, and get rid of him at once F” 


THE MONASTERY. 


221 


“ Ay, but at the expense of our friends — this butter- 
fly may fold his wings, and lie under cover in the cold air 
of Glendearg ; hut were he at Holyrood, he would, did 
his life depend on it, expand his spangled drapery in the 
eyes of the queen and court. — Rather than fail of 
distinction, he would sue for love to our gracious sover- 
eign — the eyes of all men would be on him in the course 
of three short days, and the international peace of the 
two ends of the island endangered for a creature, who, 
like a silly moth, cannot abstain from flutterine; round a 
light.” 

“ Thou hast prevailed with me. Father Eustace,” said 
the Abbot, “ and it will go hard but I improve on thy 
plan — I will send up in secret, not only household stuff, 
but wine and wassell-bread. There is a young swankie 
here who shoots venison well. I will give him directions 
to see that the knight lacks none.” 

“ Whatever accommodation he can have, which infers 
not a risk of discovery,” said the Sub-Prior, “ it is our 
duty to afford him.” 

“ Nay,” said the Abbot, “ we will do more, and will 
instantly despatch a servant express to the keeper of 
our revestiary to Send us such things as he may want, 
even this night. See it done, good father.” 

“ I will,” answered Father Eustace ; “ but T hear 
the gull clamorous for some one to truss his points.* 
He will be fortunate if he lights on any one here, who 
can do him the office of groom of the chamber.” 

“ I would he would appear,” said the Abbot, “ for here 
comes the Refectioner with the collation — By my faith, 
the ride hath given me a sharp appetite!” 


The points were the strings of cord or riband, (so called, becs.use pointed 
with metal like the laces of women's stays,) which attached the doublet to the 
hose. They were very numerous, and required assistance to tie them properly, 
which was called trussing. 


19 * 


VOL. I. 


222 


THE MONASTERY* 


CHAPTER XVII. 

I’ll seek for other aid — Spirits they say, 

Flit round invisible, as thick as motes 
Dance in the sunbeam. If that spell 
Or necromancer’s sigil can compel them, 

They shall hold council with me. 

James Duff. 

The reader’s attention must be recalled to Halbert 
GFendinning, who bad left the tower of Glendearg imme- 
diately after his quarrel with its new guest Sir Piercie 
Shafton. As he walked with a rapid pace up the glen, 
old Martin followed him, beseeching him to be less hasty. 

“ Halbert,” said the old man, “ you will never live 
to have white hair, if you take fire thus at every spark of 
provocation.” 

“ And why should I wish it, old man,” said Halbert, 
“ if I am to be the butt that every fool may aim a shaft 
of scorn against ^ — What avails it, .old man, that you 
yourself move, sleep and wake, eat thy niggard meal, and 
repose on thy hard pallet ? — Why art thou so well pleas- 
ed that the morning should call thee up to daily toil, and 
the evening again lay thee down a wearied-out wretch ? 
Were it not better sleep and wake no more, than to un- 
dergo this dull exchange of labour for insensibility, and 
of insensibility for labour f” 

“ God help me,” answered Martin, “ there may be 
truth in what thou sayest — but walk slower, for my old 
limbs cannot keep pace with your young legs — walk 
slower, and I 'will tell you why age, though unlovely, is 
yet endurable.” 

“ Speak on then,” said Halbert, slackening his pace ; 
“ but remember we must seek venison to refresh the fa- 
tigues of these holy men, who will this morning have 


THE MONASTERY. 


223 


achieved a journey of ten miles ; and if we reach not 
the Brocksburn head, vve are scarce like to see an antler.” 

“ Then know, my good Halbert,” said Martin, “ whom 
I love as my own son, that I am satisfied to live till death 
calls me, because my Maker wills it. Ay, and although ^ 
1 spend what men call a hard life, pinched with cold in 
winter, and burnt with heat in summer, though 1 feed 
ij hard and sleep hard, and am held mean and despised, 
i yet I bethink me, that were I of no use on the face of 
l^tis fair creation, God would withdraw me from it.” 

Thou poor old man,” said Halbert, “ and can such 
a vain conceit as this of thy fancied use, reconcile thee 
to a world where thou playest so poor a part .^” 

“ My part was nearly as poor,” said Martin, “ my per- 
son nearly as much despised, the day that I saved my 
mistress and her child from perishing in the wilderness.” 

“ Right, Martin,” answered Halbert ; “ there, indeed, 
thou didst what might be a sufficient apology for a whole 
life of insignificance.” 

“ And do you account it for nothing. Halbert, that I 
should have the power of giving you a lesson of patience 
and submission to the destinies of Providence Me- 
thinks there is use for the grey hairs on the old scalp, 
were it but to instruct the green Jiead by precept and by 
example.” 

Halbert held down his face, and remained silent for a 
minute or two, and then resumedHiis discourse : “ Mar- 
tin, seest thou aught changed in me of late .^” 

“ Surely,” said Martin. “ I have always known you 
hasty, wild, and inconsiderate, rude, and prompt to speak 
at the volley and without reflection ; but now, methinks, 
your bearing, without losing its natural fire, has some- 
thing in it of force and dignity which it had not before. 

It seems as if you had fallen asleep a carle, and awaken- 
. ed a gentleman.” 

“ Thou can’st judge, then, of noble bearing .?” said 
Halbert. 

'• Surely,” answered Martin, ‘‘ in some sort T can ; for 
I have travelled through court, and camp, and city, with 


224 


THE MONASTERY. 


my master Walter Avenel, although he could do nothing 
for me in the long run, but give me room for two score of 
sheep on the hill — and surely even now, while I speak 
with you, 1 feel sensible that my language is more refined 
than it is my w'ont to use, and that — though I know not 
the reason — the rude northern dialect, so familiar to my 
tongue, has given place to a more town-bred speech.” 

“ And this change in thyself and me, thou can’st by no 
means account for ?” said young Glendinning. 

“ Change !” replied Martin, “ by Our Lady, it is not so 
much a change which I feel, as a recalling and renew- 
ing sentiments and expressions which I had some thirty 
years since, ere Tibb and I set up our humble house- 
hold. It is singular, that your society should have this 
sort of influence over me. Halbert, and that I should 
never have experienced it ere now.” 

“ Thinkest thou,” said Halbert, “ thou seest in me 
aught that can raise me from this base, low, despised 
state, into one where I may rank w’ith those proud men, 
who now despise my clownish poverty 

Martin paused an instant, and then answered, “ Doubt- 
less you may. Halbert ; as broken a ship has come to land. 
Heard ye never of Hughie Dun, who left this Halidome 
some thirty-five years gone by ? A deliverly fellow was 
Hughie — could read and write like a priest, and could 
wield brand and buckler with the best of the riders. I 
mind him — the like of him was never seen in the Hali- 
dome of Saint Mary’s, and so was seen of the prefer- 
ment that God sent him.” 

“ And what was that said Halbert, his eyes spark- 
ling with eagerness. 

“ Nothing less,” answered Martin, “ than body-servant 
to the Archbishop of Saint Andrews !” 

Halbert’s countenance fell. — ‘‘ A servant — and to a 
priest ? Was this all that knowledge and activity could 
raise him to 

Martin, in his turn, looked with wistful surprise in the 
face of his young friend. “ And to what could fortune 
lead him farther answered he. “ The son of a 


THE MONASTERY. 


225 


kirk-feuar is not the stuff that lords and knights are made 
of. Courage and school-craft cannot change churl’s 
blood into gentle blood, 1 trow. 1 have heard, forby, 
that Hughie Dun left a good five hundred punds of Scots 
money to his only daughter, and that she married the 
Baillie of Pittenweem.” 

At this moment, and while Halbert was embarrassed 
with devising a suitable answer, a deer bounded across 
their path. In an instant the cross-bow was at the youth’s 
shoulder, the bolt whistled, and the deer, after giving 
one bound upright, dropt dead on the greensward. 

“ There lies the venison our dame wanted,” said 
Martin “ who would have thought of an out-lying stag 
being so low down the glen at this season ? — And it is 
a hart of grease too, in full season, and three inches of 
fat on the brisket. Now this is all your luck. Halbert, 
that follows you, go where you like. Were you to put 
in for it, I would warrant you were made one of the 
Abbot’s yeomen-prickers, and ride about in a purple 
doublet as bold as the best.” 

“ Tush, man,” answered Halbert, ‘‘ I will serve the 
Queen, or no one. Take thou care to have down the 
venison to the tower, since they expect it. I will on to 
the moss. 1 have two or three bird-bolts at my girdle, 
and it may be I shall find wild-fowl.” 

He hastened his pace, and was soon out of sight. 
Martin paused for a moment, and looked after him. 

There goes the making of a right gallant strippling, an 
ambition have not the spoiling of him — Serve the Queen ! 
said he. By my faitli, and she hath worse servants, from 
all tliat I e’er heard of him. And wherefore should he 
not keep a high head ? They that ettle to the top of 
the ladder will at least get up some rounds. They that 
mint* at a gown of gold, will always get a sleeve of it. 
But come, sir, (addressing the stag) you shall go to 
Glendearg on my two legs somewhat more slowiy than 


226 


THE MOXASTERY. 


you were frisking it even now on your own four nimble 
shanks. Nay by my faiih, if you be so heavy, I will con- 
tent me with the best of you, and that’s the haunch and 
the nombles, and e’en heave up the rest on the old oak- 
tree yonder, and come back for it with one of the y auds.”* 

While Martin returned to Glendearg with the venison. 
Halbert prosecuted his walk, breathing more easily since 
he was free of his companion. “ The domestic of a 
proud and lazy priest — body-squire to the Archbishop Ox 
Saint Andrews,” he repeated to himself ; “ and this, 
with the privilege of allying his blood with the Baillie of 
Pittenweem, is thought a preferment worth a brave man 
struggling for ; — nay more, a preferment which, if allow- 
ed, should crown the hopes, past, present, and to come, 
of the son of a kirk-vassal ! By Heaven, but that I 
find in me a reluctance to practise their acts of nocturnal 
rapine, I would rather take the Jack and lance, and join 
with the Border-riders. — Something I will do. Here, 
degraded and dishonoured, I will not live the scorn of 
each whiffling stranger from the South, because, forsooth, 
he wears tinkling spurs on a tawny boot. This thing — 
this phantom, be it what it will, I will see it once more. 
Since I spoke with her, and touched her hand, thoughts 
and feelings have dawned on me, of which my former 
life had not even dreamed ; but shall I, who feel my 
father’s glen too narrow for my expanding spirit, brook 
to be bearded in it by this vain gewgaw of a courtier, 
and in the sight too of Mary Avenel ? 1 will not stoop to 
it, by Heaven !” 

As he spoke thus he arrived in the sequestered glen 
of Corrinan-shian, as it verged upon the hour of noon. 
A few moments he remained looking upon the fountain, 
and doubting in his own mind with what countenance the 
White Lady might receive him. She had not indeed 
expressly forbidden his again evoking her ; but yet there 


Ycatds — hoi-ses ; more particularly horses of labour. 


THE MONASTERY. 


227 


was something like such a prohibition implied in the fare- 
well, which recommended him to wait for another guide. 

Halbert Glendinning did not long, however, allow 
himself to pause. Hardihood was the natural charac- 
teristic of his mind ; and under the expansion and mod- 
ification which his feelings had lately undergone, it had 
been augmented rather than diminished. He drew his 
sword, undid the buskin from his foot, bowed three times 
with deliberation towards the fountain, and as often 
towards the tree, and repeated the same rhyme as for- 
merly. — 

Thrice to the holly brake — 

Thrice to the well : — 

I bid thee awake, 

White Maid of Avenel. 

Noon gleams on the lake — 

Noon glows on the fell — 

W ake thee, O wake, 

White Maid of Avenel.” 

His eye was on the holly bush as be spoke the last 
line ; and it was not without an involuntary shuddering 
that he saw the air betwixt his eye and that object be- 
come more dim, and condense as it were into the faint 
appearance of a form, through which, however, so thin 
and transparent was the first appearance of the phantom, 
he could discern the outline of the bush, as through a 
veil of fine crape. But, gradually, it darkened into a 
more substantial appearance, and the White Lady stood 
before him with displeasure on her brow. She spoke, 
and her speech was still song, or rather measured chant ; 
but, as if now more familiar, it flowed occasionally in 
modulated blank-verse, and at other times in the lyrical 
measure which she had used at their former meeting. 

** This is the day when the fairy kind 
Sit weeping alone for their hopeless lot, 

And the wood-maiden sighs to the sighing wind, 

And the mer-maiden weeps in her crystal grot : 

For this is the day that a deed was wrought. 

In \ hich we have neither part nor share, 


228 


THE MONASTERY. 


For the children of clay was salvation bought. 

But not for the forms of sea or air 1 
And ever the mortal is most forlorn, 

Who meeteth our race on the Friday morn.’^ 

“ Spirit,” said Halbert Glendinning, boldly, it is 
bootless to threaten one who holds his life at no rate. 
Thine anger can but slay ; nor do I think thy power 
extendeth, or thy will stretcheth, so far. The terrors 
which your race produce upon others, are vain against 
me. My heart is hardened against fear, as by a sense of 
despair. If I am, as thy words infeij of a race more pe- 
culiarly the care of Heaven than thine, it is mine to call, 
it must be thine to answer. 1 am the nobler being.” 

As he spoke, the figure looked upon him with a fierce 
and ireful countenance, which, without losing the simil- 
itude of that which it usually exhibited, had a wilder 
and more exaggerated cast of features. The eyes seem- 
ed to contract and become more fiery, and slight convul- 
sions passed over the face, as if it was about to be trans- 
formed into something hideous. The whole appearance 
resembled those faces which the imagination summons 
up wdien it is disturbed by laudanum, but which do not 
remain under the visionary’s command, and, beautiful in 
their first appearance, become wild and grotesque ere 
we can arrest them. 

But when Halbert had concluded his bold speech, the 
White Lady stood before him with the same pale, fixed, 
and melancholy aspect which she usually bore. He had 
expected the agitation which she exhibited would con- 
clude in some frightful metamorphosis. Folding her 
arms on her bosom, the phantom replied, — 

“ Daring youth ! for thee it is well, 

Here calling me in haunted dell, 

That thy heart has not quail’d, 

Nor thy courage fail’d. 

And that tliou could’st brook 
The angry look 
Of Her of Avenel. 


THE MONASTERY. 


229 


Did one limb shiver, 

Or an eyelid quiver, 

Thou wert lost forever. 

Though I am form'd from the ether blue, 

And my blood is of the unfallen dew, 

And thou art fram’d of mud and dust, 

’Tis thine to speak, reply I must.” 

I demand of thee, then,” said the youth, “ by what 
charm it is that I am thus altered in mind and in wishes 
— that I think no longer of deer or dog, of bow or bolt 
— that my soul spurns the bounds of this obscure glen — 
that my blood boils at an insult from one by whose stirrup 
I would some days since have run for a whole summer’s 
morn, contented and honoured by the notice of a single 
word ? Why do I now seek to mate me with princes 
and knights and nobles — Am I the same, who but yes- 
terday, as it were, slumbered in contented obscurity,' but 
who am to-day awakened to glory and ambition ? — Speak 
— tell me, if thou canst, the meaning of this change f — 
Am I spell-bound — or .have I till now been under the in- 
fluence, of a spell, that I feel as another being, yet am 
conscious of remaining the same ? Speak, and tell me, 
is it to thy influence that the change is owing ?” 

The White Lady replied, — 

A mightier wizard far than I 
Wields o’er the universe his power ; ^ 

Him owns the eagle in the sky. 

The turtle in the bower. 

Changeful in shape, yet mightiest still. 

He wields the heart of man at will. 

From ill to good, from good to ill. 

In cot and castle-tower.” 


“ Speak not thus darkly,” said the youth, colouring so 
deeply, that face, neck, and hands were in a sanguine 
glow ; “ make me sensible of thy purpose. 

The spirit answered, — 

20 VOL. I. 


230 


THE MOXASTERT* 


** Ask thy heart, whose secret cell 
Ts fill’d with Mary Avenel ! 

Ask thy pride, why scornful look 
In Mary’s view it will not brook ? 

Ask it, why thou seek’st to rise 
Among the mighty and the wise, — 

Why thou spurn’st thy lowly lot, — 

Why thy pastimes are forgot, — 

Why thou would’st in bloody strife 
Mend thy luck or lose thy life ? 

' Ask thy heart and it shall tell, 

< Sighing from its secret cell, 

'Tis for Mary Avenel.'' 

“ Tell me, then,” said Halbert, his cheek still deeply 
crimsoned, “ thou who hast said to me that which I 
dared not to say myself, by what means shall I urge my 
passion — by what means make it known ?” 

The White Lady replied, — 

" Do not ask me; ' 

On doubts like these thou can’st not task me. 

We only see the passing show 
Of human passions’ ebb and flow ; 

And view the pageant’s idle glance . , ' 

As mortals eye the northern dance. 

When thousand streamers, flashing bright, 

Career it o’er the brow of night. 

And gazers mark their changeful gleams. 

But feel no influence from their beams. 

“ Yet, thine own fate,” replied Halbert, “unless men 
greatly err, is linked with that of mortals 
The phantom answered, — 


By ties mysterious linked, our fated race 
Holds strange connexion with the sons of men, 
The star that rose upon the House of Avenel, 
When Norman Ulrick first assumed the name, 
That star, when culminating in its orbit. 

Shot from its sphere a drop of diamond dew. 
And this bright font received it — and a Spirit 
Rose from the fountain, and her date of life 
Hath co-existence with the House of Avenel, 
And with the star that rules it.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


231 


“ Speak yet more plainly,” answered young Glen- 
dinning j ‘‘ of this I can understand nothing. Say, what 
hath forged thy wierded* link of destiny with the House 
of Avenel ? Say, especially, what fate now overhan2;s 
that house 

The White Lady' replied, — 

** Look on my girdle — on this thread of gold — 

'Tis fine as web of lightest gossamer, _ 

And, but there is a spell on’t, would not bind. 

Light as they are, the folds of my thin robe. 

But when Hwas donn’d, it was a massive chain 
Such as might bind the champion of the Jews, 

Even when his locks vyere longest — it hath dwindled, 

Hath minished in its substance and its strength 
As sunk the greatness of the House of Avenel. 

When this frail thread gives way, 1 to the element* 

Resign the principles of life they lent me. 

Ask me no more of this ! — the stars forbid it.'' 

“ Then canst thou read the stars,” answered the 
youth, “ and mayst tell me the fate of my passion, if 
thou canst not aid it .^” 

The White Lady again replied, — 

Dim burns the once bright star of Avenel, 

Dim as the beacon when the morn is nigh. 

And the o’er- wearied warder leaves the light-house ! 

There is an influence sorrowful and fearful, 

That dogs its downward course. Disastrous passion, 

Fierce hate and rivalry, are in the aspect 
That lowers upon its fortunes.” 

“ And rivalry .^” repeated Glendinning ; “ it is then 
as I feared ! — But shall that English silk-worm presume 
to beard me, in my father’s house, and in the presence of 
Mary Avenel ? — Give me to meet him, spirit — give me 
to do away the vain distinction of rank on which he re- 
fuses me the combat. Place us on equal terms, and 


* Wierded — fated. 


232 


THE MONASTERY. 


gleam the stars with what aspect they will, the sword of 
my father shall control their influences.” 

She answered as promptly as before, — 

“ Complain not of me, child of clay. 

If to thy harm 1 yield the way. 

We, who soar thy sphere above, 

Know not aught of hate or love ; . 

As will or wisdom rules thy mood. 

My gifts to evil turn or good.’' 

“ Give me to redeem my honour,” said Halbert Glen- 
dinning — “ give me to retort on my proud rival the 
insults he has thrown on me, and let the rest fare as it 
will. If 1 cannot revenge my wrong, I shall sleep quiet, 
and know nought of my disgrace.” 

The phantom failed not to reply, — 

“ When Piercie Shafton boasteth high. 

Let this token meet his eye. 

The sun is westering from the dell. 

Thy wish is granted — fare thee well!” 


As the White Lady spoke or chanted these last words, 
she undid from her locks a silver bodkin, around which 
they were twisted, and gave it to Halbert Glendinning ; 
then shaking her dishevelled hair till it fell like a veil 
around her, the outlines of her form gradually became 
as diffuse as her flowing tresses, her countenance grew 
pale as the moon in her first quarter, her features be- 
came indistinguishable, and she melted into the air. 

Habit inures us to wonders ; but the youth did not find 
himself alone by the fountain, without experiencing, 
though in a much less degree, the revulsion of spirits 
which he had felt upon the phantom’s former disappear- 
ance. A doubt strongly pressed upon his mind, whether 
it were safe to avail himself of the gifts of a spirit, which 
did not even pretend to belong to the class of angels, and 
might for aught he knew, have a much worse lineage than 
that which she was pleased to avow. “ 1 will speak 
of it,” he said, “ to Edward, who is clerkly learned, and 


THE MONASTERY. 


233 


will tell me what I should do. And yet, no—Edward 
is scrupulous and wary. 1 will prove the effect of her 
gift on Sir Piercie Shafton, if he again braves me ; and 
by the issue, I will be myself a sufficient judge whether 
there is danger in resorting to her counsel. Home, 
then, home — and we shall soon learn whether that home 
shall longer hold me ; for not again will I brook insult, 
with my father’s sword by my side, and Mary for the 
spectator of my disgrace.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

I give thee eighteenpence a-day, 

And my bow shall thou bear, 

And over all the north country, 

1 make thee the chief rydere. 

And I thirtecnpence a-day, quoth the queen, 

By god and by my faye ; 

Come fetch thy payment when thou wilt, 

No man shall say thee nay. 

William of Cloiuksley. 

The manners of the age did riot permit the inhabi- 
tants of Glendearg to partake of the collation which was 
placed in the spence of that ancient tower, before the 
Lord Abbot and his attendants, and Sir Piercie Shafton. 
Dame Glendinning was excluded, both by inferiority of 
rank and by sex ; for, (though it w^as a rule often neg- 
lected,) the superior of Saint Mary’s was debarred from 
taking his meals in female society. To Mary Avenel 
the latter, and to Edward Glendinning the former, in- 
capacity attached ; but it pleased his lordship to require 
their presence in the apartment, and to say sundry kind 
words to them upon the ready and hospitable reception 
which they had afforded him, 

20* VOL. I. 


234 


THE MONASTERY. 


The smoking haunch now stood upon the table ; a 
napkin, white as snow, was, with due reverence, tucked 
under the chin of the Abbot by the Refectioner ; and 
nought was wanting to commence the repast, save the 
presence of Sir Piercie Shafton, who at length appeared, 
glittering like the sun, in a carnation-velvet doublet, 
slashed and puffed out with cloth of silver, his hat of 
the newest block, surrounded by a hat-band of gold- 
smith’s work, while around his neck he wore a collar of 
gold, set with rubies and topazes so rich, that it vindicated 
his anxiety for the safety of his baggage from being 
founded upon his love of mere finery. This gorgeous 
collar or chain, resembling those worn by the knights of 
the highest orders of chivalry, fell down on his breast, 
and terminated in a medallion. 

“ We waited for Sir Piercie Shafton,” said the Abbot, 
hastily assuming his place in the great chair which the 
Kitchener advanced to the table with ready hand. 

“ I pray your pardon, reverend father and my good 
lord,” replied that pink of courtesy ; “ I did but wait 
to cast my riding slough, and to transmew myself into 
some civil form rneeter for this worshipful company.” 

“ I cannot but praise your gallantry. Sir Knight,” 
said the Abbot, “ and your prudence also, for choosing 
the fitting time to appear thus adorned. Certes, had 
that goodly chain been visible in some part of your late 
progress, there was risk that the lawful owner might have 
parted company therewith.” 

“ This chain, said your reverence answered Sir 
Piercie ; “ surely it is but a toy, a trifle, a slight thing 
which shows but poorly with this doublet — marry, when 
I wear that of the murrey-coloured, double-piled Genoa 
velvet, puffed out with Cyprus, the gems being relieved 
and setoff by the darker and more grave ground of the 
stuff, show like stars giving a lustre through dark clouds.” 

‘‘ I nothing doubt it,” said the Abbot, “ but 1 pray you 
to sit down at the board.” 

But Sir Piercie had now got into his element, and 
was not easily interrupted — “ I own,” he continued, 


THE MONASTERY. 


235 


that slight as the toy is, it might perchance have had 
some captivation for Julian — Santa Maria !” said he, 
interrupting himself ; “ what was I about to say, and my 
fair and beauteous Protection, or shall I rather term her 
my Discretion, here in presencel—lndiscreet hath it been 
in your Affability, O most lovely Discretion, to suffer a 
stray word to have broke out of the pinfold of his 
mouth, that might overleap the fence of civility, and tres- 
pass on the manor of decorum.” 

“ Marry !” said the Abbot, somewhat impatiently, 
“ the greatest discretion that I can see in the matter is, 
to eat our victuals being hot — Father Eustace, say the 
Benedicite, and cut up the haunch.” 

The Sub-Prior readily obeyed the first part of the 
Abbot’s injunction, but paused upon the second — “ It is 
Friday, most reverend,” he said in Latin, desirous that 
the hint should escape, if possible, the ears of the stranger. 

“ We are travellers,” said the Abbot in reply, “ and 
viatorihus licitum est — You know the canon — a travel- 
ler must eat what food his hard fate sets before him. — I 
grant you all a dispensation to eat flesh this day, condi- 
tionally that you, brethren, say the Confiteor at curfew 
time, that the knight give alms to his ability, and that all 
and each of you fast from flesh on such day within the 
next month that shall seem most convenient ; where- 
fore fall to and eat your food with cheerful countenances, 
and you. Father Refectioner, da mixtusy 

While the Abbot was thus stating the conditions on 
which his indulgence was granted, he had already half 
finished a slice of the noble haunch, and now washed it 
down with a flagon of rhenish, modestly tempered with 
water. 

‘‘ Well is it said,” he observed, as he required from 
the Refectioner another slice, “ that virtue is its own 
reward ; for though this is but humble fare, and hastily 
prepared, and eaten in a poor chamber, I do not remem- 
ber me of having had such an appetite since I was a 
simple brother in the Abbey of Dundrennan, and was 
wont to labour in the garden from morning until nones, 


236 


THE MONASTERY. 


when our Abbot struck the cymhalum. Then would I 
enter keen with hunger, parched with thirst, ( da mihi 
vinum quceso, et merum sit^) and partake with appetite 
of whatever was set before us, according to our rule ; 
feast or fast-day, caritas or penitentia, was the same to 
me. I had no stomach complaints then, which now crave 
both the aid of wine and choice cookery, to render my 
food acceptable to my palate, and easy of digestion.” 

“ It may be, holy father,” said the Sub-Prior, “ an oc- 
casional ride to the extremity of St. Mary’s patrimony, 
may have the same happy effect on your health as the 
air of the garden at Dundrennan.” 

‘‘ Perchance, with our patroness’s blessing, such pro- 
gresses may advantage us,” said the Abbot ; “ having 
an especial eye that our venison is carefully killed by 
some woodsman that is master of his craft.” 

“ If the Lord Abbot will permit me,” said the Kitch- 
ener, “ I think the best way to assure his lordship on 
that important point, would be to retain as a yeoman- 
pricker, or deputy-ranger, the eldest son of this good 
woman. Dame Glendinning, who is here to wait upon us. 
I should know by mine office what belongs to killing of 
game, and I can safely pronounce that never saw I, or 
any other coquinarius, a bolt so justly shot. It has 
cloven the very heart of the buck.” 

“ What speak you to us of one good shot, father?” 
said Sir Piercie ; “ I would advise you that such no 
more makelh a shooter, than doth one swallow make a 
summer — I have seen this springald of whom you speak, 
and if his hand can send forth his shafts as boldly as his 
tongue doth utter presumptuous speeches, I will own him 
as good an archer as Robin Hood.” 

“ Marry,” said the Abbot, “ and it is fitting we know 
the truth of this matter from the dame herself; for ill- 
avised were we to give way to any rashness in this 
matter, whereby the bounties which heaven and our 
patroness provide might be unskilfully mangled, and ren- 
dered unfit for worthy men’s use. — Stand forth, therefore. 
Dame Glendinning, and tell to us, as thy liege lord and 


THE MONASTERY. 


237 


spiritual Superior, using plainness and truth, without 
either fear or favour, as being a matter wherein we are 
deeply interested. Doth this son of thine use his bow as 
well as the Father Kitchener avers to us f” 

“ So please your noble fatherhood,” answered Dame 
Glendinning, with a deep curtsy ; “ I should know 

somewhat of archery to my cost, seeing my husband — 
God assoilzie him ! — was slaiq in the field of Pinkie 
with an arrow-shot, while he was fighting under the 
Kirk’s banner, as became a liege vassal of the Halidome. 
He was a valiant man, please your reverence, and an 
honest ; and saving that he loved a bit of venison, and 
shifted for his living at a time as Border-men will some- 
times do, I wot not of sin that he did. And yet, though I 
have paid for mass after mass to the matter of a forty 
shilling, besides a quarter of wheat and four firlots of 
rye, I can have no assurance yet that he has been deliv- 
ered from purgatory.” 

“ Dame,” said the Lord Abbot, “ this shall be looked 
into heedfully ; and since thy husband fell, as thou 
sayest, in the Kirk’s quarrel, and under her banner, rely 
upon it that we will have him out of purgatory forthwith 
— that is, always providing he be there. — But it is not 
of thy husband whom we now devise to speak, but of thy 
son ; not of a shot Scotsman, but of a shot deer — 
Wherefore I say, answer me to the point, is thy son a 
practised archer, ay or no 

“ Alack ! my reverend lord,” replied the widow ; 
“ and my croft would be better tilled, if I could answer 
your reverence that he is not. — Practised archer ! — 
marry, holy sir, I would he would practise something 
else — cross-bow and long-bow, hand-gun and hackbut, 
falconet and saker, he can shoot with them all. And 
if it would please this right honourable gentleman, our 
guest, to hold out his hat at the distance of a hundred 
yards, our Halbert shall send shaft, bolt or bullet through 
it, (so that right honourable gentleman swerve not, but 
hold out steady,) and I will forfeit a quarter of barley if 
he touch but a knot of his ribands. I have seen our 


238 


THE MONASTERY. 


old Martin do as much, and so has our right Reverend 
the Sub-Prior, if he he pleased to remember it.” 

“I am norlike to forget it, dame,” said Father Eus- 
tace ; “ for I knew not which most to admire, the com- 
posure of the young marksman, or the steadiness of the 
old mark. Yet 1 presume not to advise Sir Piercie 
Shafton to subject his valuable beaver, and yet more 
valuable person, to such a risk, unless it should be his own 
special pleasure.” 

“ Be assured it is not,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, 
something hastily, “ be well assured, holy father, that it 
is not. 1 dispute not the lad’s qualities, for which your 
reverence vouches. But bows are but wood, strings are 
but flax, or the silk-worm excrement at best ; archers 
are but men, fingers may slip, eyes may dazzle, the 
blindest may hit the butt, the best marker may shoot a 
bow’s length beside. Therefore will we try no perilous 
experiments.” 

“ Be that as you will. Sir Piercie,” said the Abbot ; 
“ meantime we will name this youth bow-bearer in the 
forest granted to us by good King David, that the chase 
might recreate our wearied spirits, the flesh of the deer 
improve our poor commons, and the hides cover the 
books of our library ; thus tending at once to the suste- 
nance of body and soul.” 

“ Kneel down, woman, kneel down,” said the Re- 
fectioner and the Kitchener, with one voice, to Dame 
Glendinning, “ and kiss his lordship’s hand, for the grace 
which he has granted to thy son.” 

They then, as if they had been chanting the service 
and the responses, set off in a sort of duetto, enumerating 
the advantages of the situation. 

“ A green gown and a pair of leathern galligaskins 
every Penticost,” said the Kitchener. 

“ Four marks by the year at Candlemas,” answered 
the Refectioner. 

“ An hogshead of ale at Martlemas, of the double 
strike, and single ale at pleasure, as he shall agree with 
the cellarer” 


THE MONASTERY. 


239 


‘ Who is a reasonable man,” said the Abbot, “ and 
will encourage an active servant of the convent.” 

“ A mess of broth and a dole of mutton or beef, at the 
Kitchener’s, on each high holiday,” resumed the Kitch- 
ener. 

“ The gang of two cows and a palfrey on Our Lady’s 
meadow,” answered his brother officer. 

“ An ox-hide to make buskins of yearly, because of 
the brambles,” echoed the Kitchener. 

“ And various other perquisites, quce nunc proiscrihere 
longum,’^ said the Abbot, summing, with his own lordly 
voice, the advantages attached to the office of conventual 
bow-bearer. 

Dame Glendinning was all this while on her knees, 
her head mechanically turning from the one church-offi- 
cer to the other, which, as they stood one on each side of 
her, had much the appearance of a figure moved by 
clock-work, and so soon as they were silent, most devout- 
ly did she kiss the munificent hand of the Abbot. Con- 
scious, however, of Halbert’s intractability in some points, 
she could not help qualifying her grateful and reiterated 
thanks for the Abbot’s bountiful proffer, with a hope that 
Halbert would see his wisdom, and accept of it. 

“ How,” said the Abbot, bending his brows, “ accept 
of it ? — Woman, is thy son in his right wits 

Elspeth, stunned by the tone in which this question was 
asked, was altogether unable to reply to it. Indeed, any 
answer she might have made could hardly have been 
heard, as it pleased the two office-bearers of the Abbot’s 
table again to recommence their alternate dialogue. 

‘‘ Refuse!” said the Kitchener. 

“ Refuse!” answered the Refectioner, echoing the 
other’s word in a tone of still louder astonishment. 

“ Refuse four marks by the year !” said the one. 

‘‘ Ale and beer — broth and mutton — cow’s-grass and 
palfrey’s !” shouted the Kitchener. 

“ Gown and galligaskins !” responded the Refectioner. 

‘‘ A moment’s patience, my brethren,” answered the 
Sub-Prior, “ and let us not be thus astonished before 


240 


THE MONASTERY. 


cause IS afforded of our amazement. This good dame 
best knoweth the temper and spirit of her son — this 
much I can say, that it lieth not towards letters or learn- 
ing, of which I have in vain endeavoured to instil into 
him some tincture. Nevertheless he is a youth of no 
common spirit, but much like those (in my weak judg- 
ment) whom God raises up among a people when he 
meaneth that their deliverance shall be wrought out with 
strength of hand and valour of heart. Such men we 
have seen marked by a waywardness, and even an obsti- 
nacy of character, which hath appeared intractability and 
stupidity to those among whom they walked and were 
conversant, until the very opportunity hath arrived in 
which it was the will of Providence that they should be 
the fitting instrument of great things.” 

“ Now, in good time hast thou spoken. Father Eus- 
tace,” said the Abbot ; “ and we will see this swankie 
before we decide upon the means of employing him. — 
How say you. Sir Piercie Shafton, is it not the court fash- 
ion to suit the man to the office, and not the office to the 
man ?” 

“ So please your reverence and lordship,” answered 
the Northumbrian knight, “ 1 do partly, that is, in some 
sort, subscribe to what your wisdom hath delivered — 
Nevertheless, under reverence of the Sub-Prior, we do 
not look for gallant leaders and national deliverers in the 
hovels of the mean common people. Credit me, that 
if there be some flashes of martial spirit about this young 
person, which 1 am not called upon to dispute, (though 
I have seldom seen that presumption and arrogance were 
made good upon the upshot by deed and action,) ye 
still these will prove insufficient to distinguish him, save 
in his own limited and lowly sphere — even as the glow- 
worm, which makes a goodly show among the grass of 
the field, would be of little avail if deposited in a beacon- 
grate.” 

“ Now, in good time,” said the Sub-Prior, “ and here 
comes the young huntsman to speak for himself for, 
being placed opposite to the window, he could observe 


TUE MONASTERY. 


241 


Halbert as he ascended the little mound on which the 
tower was situated. 

“ Summon him to our presence,” said the Lord Ab- 
bot 5 and with an obedient start the two attendant monks 
went off with emulous alertness. Dame Glendinning 
sprung away at the same moment, partly to gain an instant 
to recommend obedience to her son, partly to prevail 
with him to change his apparel, before coming in pres- 
ence of the Abbot. But the Kitchener and Refectioner, 
both speaking at once, had already seized each an arm, 
and were leading Halbert in triumph into the apartment, 
so that she could only ejaculate, “ His will be done — 
but an he had but had on him his Sunday’s hose !” 

Limited and humble as this desire was, the fates did 
not grant it, for Halbert Glendinning was hurried into 
the presence of the Lord Abbot and his party without a 
word of explanation, and without a moment’s time being 
allowed to assume his holiday hose, which, in the lan- 
guage of the time, implied both breeches and stockings. 

Yet though thus suddenly presented amid the centre 
of all eyes, there was something in Halbert’s appearance 
which commanded a certain degree of respect from the 
company into which he was so unceremoniously intruded, 
and the greater part of whom were disposed to consider 
him with hauteur, if not with absolute contempt. But 
his appearance and reception we must devote to another 
chapter. 


4 - 


21 VOL. I. 


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NOTES TO THE MONASTERY 


1. ■ Paffe 10. The George was, and is, the principal inn in the villagre of 
Kennaquhair, or Melrose. Ikit the landlord of the period w:is not the same 
civil and quiet person by whom the inn is now kept. David Kyle, a Melrose 
proprietor of no little importance, a first-rate person of consequence in what- 
ever belons^ed to the business of the town, was the original owner and landlord 
of the inn. Poor David! like many other busy men, took so much care of 
public affairs, as in some degree to neglect his own. There are persons still 
alive at Kennaquhair who can recognise him hi his peculiarities in the follow- 
ing sketch of mine Host of the George. 

2. Page 11. There is more to be said about this old bridge hereafter. 
See Note 12. 

3. Page 13. The nobleman whose boats are mentioned in the text, is the 
late kind and amiable Lord Sommerville, an intimate friend of the author. 
David Kyle was a constant and privileged attendant when Lord Sommerville 
had a party for spearing salmon j on such occasions, eighty or a hundred fish 
were often killed between Gleamer and Leaderfoot. 

4. Page 14. Thomas Thomson, Esq., whose well-deserved panegyric 
ought to be found on anotlier page theui one written by an intimate friend of 
thirty years' standing. 

5. Page 15. The family of De Haga, modernized into Haig, of Bemer- 
side, is of the highest antiquity, and is uie subject of one of the prophecies of 
Thomas the Rhymer : — 

Betide, betide, whatever betide, 

Haig shall be Haig of Bemerside. 

6. Page 16. It is curious to remark at how little expense of invention 
successive ages are content to receive amusement. The same story which 
Ramsay an<r Dunbar have successively handled, forms also the subject of the 
modern farce. No Song, no Supper. 

7. Page 24. This is one of those passages which must now read awk- 
wardly, since every one knows that the Novelist and the author of the Lay 
of the Minstrel, is the same person. But before the avowal was made, the 
author was forced into this and similar offences against good taste, to meet an 
argument, often repeated, that there was sometning very mysterious in the 
Author of Waverley's reserve concerning Sir Walter Scott, an author suffi- 
ciently voluminous at least. I had a great mind to remove the passages from 
this edition, but the more candid way is to explain how they came there. 

8. Page 40. This note, and the passages in the text, were occasioned by 
a London bookseller having printed, as a speculation, an additional collection 
of Tales of My Landlord, which was not so fortunate as to succeed in passing 
on the world as genuine. 


244 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


9. Page 41. In consequence of the pseudo Tales of My Landlord print- 
ed in London, as already mentioned, the late Mr. John Ballantyne^ the au- 
thor’s publisher, had a controversy with the interloping bibliopolist, each 
insisting that his Jedediah Cleishbotham was the real Simon Pure. 

10. Page 55. As gallantry of all times and nations has the same mode of 
thinking and acting, so it often expresses itself by the same symbols. In the 
civil war 1745-6, a party of Highlanders, under a Chieftain of rank, came to 
Rose Castle, the seat of the Bishop of Carlisle, but then occupied by the^ 
family of Squire Dacre of Cumberland. They demanded quarters, which of 
course were not to be refused to armed men of a strange attire and unknown 
language. But the domestic represented to the captain of the mountaineers, 
that the lady of the mansion had been just delivered of a daughter, and ex- 
pressed her hope, that, under these circumstances, his party would give as 
little trouble as possible. '‘God forbid,” said the gallant chief, " that I or 
mine should be the means of adding to a lady’s inconvenience at such a time. 
May I request to see the infant ?” The child was brought, and the High- 
lander, taking his cockade out of his bonnet, and pinning it on the child’s 
breast, " That will be a token,” he said, " to any of our people who may 
come hither, that Donald M'Donald of Kinloch-Moidart, has taken the family 
of Rose Castle under his protection.” The lady who received in infancy this 
gage of Highland protection, is now Mary, Lady Clerk of Pennycuick ; and 
on the 10th of June still wears the cockade which was pinned on her breast, 
with a white rose as a kindred decoration. 

11. Page 63. This superstition continues to prevail, though one would 
suppose it must now be antiquated. It is only a year or two since an itinerant 
puppet show-man, who, disdaining to acknowledge the profession of Gines 
de Passamonte, called himself an artist from Vauxhall, brought a complaint 
of a singular nature before the author, as Sheriff of Selkirkshire. The e- 
markable dexterity with which the show-man had exhibited the machinery of 
his little stage, had, upon a Selkirk fair-day, excited the eager curiosity of 
some mechanics of Galashiels. These men, from no worse motive that could 
be discovered than a thirst after knowledge beyond their sphere, committed 
a burglary upon the barn in which the puppets had been consigned to repose, 
and carried them off in the nook of their plaids, when returning from Selkirk 
to their own village. 

" But with the morning cool reflection came.” 

The party found, however, they could not make Punch dance, and that the 
whole troop were equally intractable ; they had also, perhaps, some appre- 
hensions of the Rhaaamanth of the district ; and, willing to be quit of their 
booty, they left the puppets seated in a grove by the side of the Ettrick, where 
they were sure to be touched by the first beams of the rising sun. Here a 
shepherd, who was on foot with sunrise to pen his master’s sheep on a field of 
turnips, to his utter astonishment, saw this train, profusely gay, sitting in the 
little grotto. His examination proceeded thus - 

Sheriff. You saw these gay -looking things 1 what did you think they were ? 

Shepne7'd. Ou, I am no that free to say what I^ight think they were. 

Sheriff. Come, lad, I must have a direct answer— who did you think they 
were ? 

Shepherd. Ou, sir, troth I am no that free to say that I mind wha I might 
think they were. 

Sheriff. Come, come, sir ! I ask you distinctly, did you think they were 
the fairies you saw ? 

Shepherd. Indeed, sir, and I winna say but I might think it was the Good 
Neighbours. 

Thus unwillingly was he brought to allude to the irritable and captious in- 
habitants of fairy land. 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


245 


12. Paee 87. A bridge of the very peculiar construction described in the 
-cxt, actually existed at a small hamlet about a mile and a hall* above Mel- 
rose, called from the circumstance Bridge-end. It is thus noticed in Gordon’s 
Iter Septentrionale 

Ih another journey through the south parts of Scotland, about a mile and 
a half from Melrose, in the shire of Teviotdale, I saw the remains of a curious 
bridge over the river Tweed, consisting of three octangular pillars, or rather 
towers, standing within the water, without any arches to join them. The 
middle one, which is the most entire, has a door towards the north, and I sup- 
pose, another opposite one towards the south, which I could not see without 
crossing the water. In the middle of this tower is a projection or cornice sur- 
rounding it : the whole is hollow from the door upwards, and now open at the 
top, near which was a small window. I was informed that not long ago a 
countryman and his family lived in this tower — and got his livelihood by lay- 
ing out planks from pillar to pillar, and conveying passengers over the river. 
^y'^hether this be ancient or modern, I know not j but as it is singular in its 
kind, I have thought fit to exhibit it ” 

The vestiges of this uncommon species of bridge still exist, and the author 
has often seen the foundations of the columns when drifting down the Tweed 
at night, for the purpose of killing salmon by torch-light. Mr. John Mercer 
of Bridge-end recollects, that about fifty years ago the pillars were visible 
above water j and the late Mr. David Kyle of the George Inn, Melrose, told 
tlie author that he saw a stone taken from the river, bearing this inscription : — 

I, Sir John Pringle of Palmer stede 
Give an hundred markis of gowd sae reid. 

To help to bigg my brigg ower Tweed.” 

Pringle of Galashiels, afterwards of Whytbank, was the Baron to whom 
the bridge belonged. 

13. Page 134. It was one of the few reminiscences of Old Parr, or Henry 
Jenkins, I forget w'hich, that, at some convent in the veteran’s neighbourhood, 
the community, before the dissolution, used to dole out roast-oeef by the 
measure of feet and yards. 

14. Page 175. A brood of wild-geese, which long frequented one of the 
uppermost islands in Loch-Lornond, called Inch-Tavoe, were supposed to 
have some mysterious connexion with the ancient family of MacFarlane of 
that ilk, and it is said were never seen after the ruin and extinction of that 
house. The MacFarlanes had a house and garden upon that same island of 
Inch-Tavoe. Here James VI. was, on one occasion, regaled by the chief- 
tain. His majesty had been previously much amused by the geese pursuing 
each other on the Loch. But, when one which w^as brought to table, was 
found to be tough and ill fed, James observed — “ that MacFarlane’s geese 
liked their play better than their meat,” a proverb which has been current 
ever since. 

15. Page 219. ‘‘ Yorke,” says Camden, “ was a Londoner, a man of 
loose and dissolute behaviour, and desperately audacious — famous in his time 
amongst the common bullies and swaggerers, as being the first that, to the 

g reat admiration of many at his boldness, brought into England the bold and 
angerous way of fencing with the rapier in duelling. Whereas, till that time, 
the English used to fight with long swords and bucklers, striking w'ith the 
edge, and thought it no part of man either to push or strike beneath the girdle.” 

Having a command in the Low Countries, Yorke revolted to the Spaniards, 
and diea miserably, poisoned, as was supposed, by his new allies. Three 
years afterwards, his bones were dug up and gibbeted by the command of the 
States of Holland. 

Thomas Stukely, another distinguished gallant of the time, was bred a mer 
chant, being the son of a rich clothier in the west. He wedded the daughter 


246 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY, 


and heiress of a wealthy alderman of London, named Curtis, after whose 
death he squandered the riches he thus acquired in all manner of extrava- 
gance. His wife, whose forimie supplied his waste, represented to him that 
he ouffht to make more of her. Stukely replied, I will make as much of 
thee, believe me, as it is possible for any to do j" and he kept his word in one 
sense, having stripped her even of her wearing' apparel, before he finally ran 
away from her. 

Having' fled to Italy, he contrived to impose upon the Pope, with a plan of 
invading Ireland, for which he levied soldiers, and made some preparations j 
but ended by enga^ng himself and his troops in the service ot King Sebajs- 
tian of Portugal. He sailed with that prince on his fatal voyage to fiarbary, 
and fell with him at the battle of Alcazar. 

Stukely, as one of the first gallants of the time, has had the honour to be 
chronicled in song, in Evans’ Old Ballads, vol. iii. edition 1810. His fate is 
also introduced in a tragedy, by George Peel, as has been supposed, called 
the Battle of Alcazar, from which play Drydenis alleged to have taken the 
idea of Don Sebastian 5 if so, it is surprising he omitted a character so con- 
genial to King Charles the Second’s time, as the witty, brave, and profligate 
Thomas Stukely. 


END OF VOLUME I 


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WAVERLEY NOVELS. 


Volume 18. 


THE MONASTERY; 

A ROMANCE. 


IN TWO VOLUMES. 

II. 


^ PARKER’S EDITION, 

REVISED AND CORRECTED, WITH A GENERAL PREFACE, AN 
INTRODUCTION TO EACH NOVEL, AND NOTES, 
HISTORICAL AND ILLUSTRATIVE, BY 

THE AUTHOR. 


PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL H. PARKER, BOSTON, FOR 
DESILVER, THOMAS, AND CO., 
PHILADELPHIA. 


1836 


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\ -7 


THE MONASTERY, 


CHAPTER I. 


Now choose thee, gallant, betwixt wealth and honour; 

There lies the pelf, in sum to bear thee through 
The dance of youth, and the turmoil of manhood, 

Yet leave enough for age's chimney-corner ; 

But an thou grasp to it, farewell ambition. 

Farewell each hope of bettering thy condition, 

And raising thy low rank above the churls 
That till the earth for bread. 

Old Play. 

It is necessary to dwell for some brief space on the 
appearance and demeanour of young Glendinning, ere 
we proceed to describe his interview with the Abbot of 
Saint Mary’s, at this momentous crisis of his life. 

Halbert was now about nineteen years old, tall and 
active rather than strong, yet of that hardy confirmation 
of limb and sinew, which promises great strength when 
the growth shall be complete and the system confirmed. 
He was perfectly well made, and, like most men who 
have that advantage, possessed a grace and natural ease 
of manner and carriage, which prevented his height from 
being the distinguished part of his external appearance. 
It was not until you had compared his stature with that 
of those amongst or near to whom he stood, that you 
became sensible that the young Glendinning was upwards 
of six feet high. In the combination of unusual height, 
with perfect symmetry, ease, and grace of carriage, the 
young heir of Glendearg, notwithstanding his rustic birth 
and education, had greatly the advantage even of Sir 


4 


THE MONASTERY* 


Piercie Shafton himself, whose stature was lower, and 
his limbs, though there was no particular point to object 
to, were on the whole less exactly proportioned. On the 
other hand. Sir Piercie’s very handsome countenance 
afforded him as decided an advantage over the Scots- 
man, as regularity of features and brilliance of com- 
plexion could give over traits which were rather strongly 
marked than beautiful, and upon whose complexion the 
“ skyey influences,’’ to which he was constantly exposed, 
had blended the red and white into the purely nut-brown 
hue, which coloured alike cheeks, neck, and forehead, 
and blushed only in a darker glow upon the former. — 
Halbert’s eyes supplied a marked and distinguished part 
of his physiognomy. They were large and of a hazel 
colour, and sparkled in moments of animation with such 
uncommon brilliancy, that it seemed as if they actually 
emitted light. Nature had closely curled the locks of 
dark-brown hair which relieved and set off the features, 
such as we have described them, displaying a bold and 
animated disposition much more than might have been 
expected from his situation, or from his previous man- 
ners, which hitherto had seemed bashful, homely, and 
awkward. 

Halbert’s dress was certainly not of that description 
which sets off to the best advantage a presence of itself 
prepossessing. His jerkin and hose were of coarse 
rustic cloth, and his cap of the same. A belt round his 
waist served at once to sustain the broad-sword which 
we have already mentioned, and to hold five or six arrows 
and bird-bolts, which were stuck into it on the right 
side, along with a large knife hiked with buck-horn, or, 
as it was then called, a dudgeon-dagger. To complete 
his dress, we must notice his loose buskins of deer’s-hide, 
formed so as to draw up on the leg as high as the knee, 
or at pleasure to be thrust down lower than the calves. 
These were generally used at the period by such as 
either had their principal occupation, or their chief pleas- 
ure, in sylvan sports, as they served to protect the legs 
against the rough and tangled thickets into which the 


the monastery. 


6 


pursuit of game frequently led them. — And these trifling 
particulars complete his external appearance. 

It is not so easy to do justice to the manner in which 
young Glendinning’s soul spoke through his eyes, when 
ushered so suddenly into the company of those whom his 
earliest education had taught him to treat with awe and 
reverence. The degree of embarrassment which his 
demeanour evinced had nothing in it either meanly 
ervile, or utterly disconcerted. It was no more than 
necame a generous and ingenuous youth of a bold spirit, 
but totally inexperienced, who should for the first time 
be called upon to think and act for himself in such soci- 
ety, and under such disadvantageous circumstances. 
There was not in his carriage a grain either of forward- 
ness or of timidity, which a friend could have wished 
away. 

He kneeled and kissed the Abbot’s hand, then rose, 
and retiring two paces, bowed respectfully to the circle 
around, smiling gently as he received an encouraging 
nod from the Sub-Prior, to whom alone he was personal- 
ly known, and blushing as he encountered the anxious 
look of Mary Avenel, who beheld with painful interest 
the sort of ordeal to which her foster-brother was about 
to be subjected. Recovering from the transient flurry of 
spirits into which the encounter of her glance had thrown 
him, he stood composedly awaiting till the Abbot should 
express his pleasure. 

The ingenuous expression of countenance, noble form, 
and graceful attitude of the young man failed not to pre- 
possess in his favour the churchmen in whose presence 
he stood. The Abbot looked round and exchanged a 
gracious and approving glance with his counsellor Father 
Eustace, although probably the appointment of a ranger, 
or bow-bearer, was one in which he might have been 
disposed to proceed without the Sub-Prior’s advice, were 
it but to show his own free agency. But the good mien 
of the young man now in nomination was such, that he 
rather hastened to exchange congratulation on meeting 
1* VOL. II. 


6 


THE MONASTERY. 


with so proper a subject of promotion, than to indulge any 
other feeling. Father Eustace enjoyed the pleasure which 
a well-constituted mind derives from seeing a benefit light 
on a deserving object ; for as he had not seen Halbert 
since circumstances had made so material a change in his 
manner and feelings, he scarce doubted that the proffered 
appointment would, notwithstanding his mother’s uncer- 
tainty, suit the disposition of a youth who had appeared 
devoted to woodland sports, and a foe alike to sedentary 
or settled occupation of any kind. The Refectioner and 
Kitchener were so well pleased with Halbert’s prepos- 
sessing appearance, that they seemed to think that the 
salary, emoluments, and perquisites, the dole, the grazing, 
the gown, and the galligaskins, could scarce be better be- 
stowed than on the active and graceful figure before 
them. 

Sir Piercie Shafton, whether from being more deeply 
engaged in his own cogitations, or that the subject was 
unworthy of his notice, did not seem to partake of the 
general feeling of approbation excited by the young 
man’s presence. He sat with his eyes half shut, and his 
arms folded, appearing to be wrapped in contemplations 
of a nature deeper than those arising out of the scene 
before him. But, notwithstanding his seeming abstrac- 
tion and absence of mind, there was a flutter of vanity 
in Sir Piercie’s very handsome countenance, an occa- 
sional change of posture from one striking attitude (or 
what he conceived to be such,) to another, and an oc- 
casional stolen glance at the female part of the company, 
to spy how far he succeeded in rivetting their attention, 
which gave a marked advantage, in comparison, to the 
less regular and more harsh features of Halbert Glendin- 
ning, with their composed, manly, and deliberate ex- 
pression of mental fortitude. 

Of the females belonging to the family of Glendearg, 
the Miller’s daughter alone had her mind sufficiently at 
leisure to admire, from time to time, the graceful alti- 
tudes of Sir Piercie Shafton ; for both Mary Avenel 
and Dame Glendinning were waiting in anxiety and ap- 


THE MONASTERY. 


7 


prehension, the answer which Halbert was to return to 
the Abbot’s proposal, and fearfully anticipating the con- 
sequences of his probable refusal. The conduct of his 
brother Edward, for a lad constitutionally shy, respect- 
ful, and even timid, was at once affectionate and noble. 
This younger son of Dame Elspeth had stood unnoticed, 
in a corner, after the Abbot, at the request of the Sub- 
Prior, had honoured him with some passing notice, and 
sked him a few common-place questions about his pro- 
gress in Donatus, and in the Promptuarium Parvulorum^ 
without waiting for the answers. From his corner he now 
glided round to his brother’s side, and, keeping a little 
behind him, slid his right hand into the huntsman’s left, 
and by a gentle pressure, which Halbert instantly and 
ardently returned, expressed at once his interest in his 
situation, and his resolution to share his fate. 

The group was thus arranged, when, after the pause 
of two or three minutes, which he employed in slowly 
sipping his cup of wine, in order that he might enter on 
his proposal with due and deliberate dignity, the Abbot 
at length expressed himself thus : 

“ My son — we your lawful superior, and the Abbot, 
under God’s favour, of the community of Saint Mary’s, 
have heard of your manifold good gifts — a-hem — espe- 
cially touching woodcraft — and the huntsman-like fashion 
in which you strike your game, truly and as a yeoman 
should, not abusing Heaven’s good benefits by spoiling 
the flesh, as is too often seen in careless rangers — 
a-hem.” He made here a pause ; but observing that 
Glendinning only replied to his compliment by a bow, 
he proceeded, — ‘‘ My son, we commend your modesty ; 
nevertheless, we will that thou shouldst speak freely to 
us touching that which we have premeditated for thine 
advancement, meaning to confer on thee the office of 
bow-bearer and ranger, as well over the chases and forests 
wherein our house hath privilege by the gifts of pious 
kings and nobles, whose souls now enjoy the fruits of 
their bounties to the church, as to those which belong to 
us in exclusive right of property and perpetuity. Thy 


8 


THE MONASTERY. 


knee, my son — that we may, with our own hand, and 
without loss of time, induct thee into office.” 

“ Kneel down,” said the Kitchener, on the one side ; 
and “ Kneel down,” said the Refectioner, on the other. 

But Halbert Glendinning remained standing. 

“ Were it to show gratitude and good-will for your 
reverend lordship’s noble offer, I could not,” he said, 
“ kneel low enough, or remain long enough kneeling. 
But 1 may not kneel to take investiture of your noble 
gift, my Lord Abbot, being a man determined to seek 
my fortune otherwise.” 

“ How is that, sir ?” said the Abbot, knitting bis brows ; 
“ do I bear you speak arigbt ? and do you, a born vassal 
of the Halidome, at the moment when I am destining to 
you such a noble expression of my good-will, propose 
exchanging my service for that of any other 

“ My lord,” said Halbert Glendinning.' “ it grieves 
me to think you hold me capable of undervaluing your 
gracious offer, or of exchanging your service for another. 
But your noble proffer doth but hasten the execution of 
a determination which I have long since formed .” 

“ Ay, my son,” said the Abbot, “ is it indeed so ? 
— right early have you learned to form resolutions with- 
out consulting those on whom you naturally depend. 
But what may it be, this sagacious resolution, if 1 may 
so far pray you ?” 

“ To yield up to my brother and mother,” answered 
Halbert, “ mine interest in the fief at Glendearg, lately 
possessed by my father, Simon Glendinning : and having 
prayed your lordship to be the same kind and generous 
master to them, that your predecessors, the venerable 
Abbots of Saint Mary’s, have been to my fathers in time 
past; for myself, I am determined to seek my fortune 
where I may best find it.” 

Dame Glendinning here ventured, emboldened by 
maternab anxiety, to break silence with an exclamation 
of “ O my son !” Edward, clinging to his brother’s side, 
half spoke, half whispered a similar ejaculation, of 
‘ Brother ! brother •” 


THE MONASTERY. 


9 


The Sub-Prior took up the matter in a tone of grave 
reprehension, which, as he conceived, the interest he 
had always taken in the family of Glendearg required 
at his hand. 

“ Wilful young man,” he said, “ what folly can urge 
thee to push back the hand that is stretched out to aid 
thee What visionary aim hast thou before thee, that 
can compensate for the decent and sufficient independ- 
ence which thou art now rejecting with scorn ?” 

“ Four marks by the year, duly and truly,” said the 
Kitchener. 

“ Cow’s-grass, doublet, and galligaskins,” responded 
the Refectioner. 

“ Peace, my brethren,” said the Sub-Prior ; “ and 
may it please your lordship, venerable father, upon rny 
petition, to allow this headstrong youth a day for consid- 
eration, and it shall be my part so to indoctrinate him, as 
to convince him what is due on this occasion to your 
lordship, and to his family, and to himself.” 

“ Your kindness, reverend father,” said the youth, 
“ craves my dearest thanks — it is the continuance of a 
long train of benevolence towards me, for which I give 
you my gratitude, for I have nothing else to offer. It is 
my mishap, not your fault, that your intentions have been 
frustrated. But my present resolution is fixed and un- 
alterable. I cannot accept the generous offer of the 
Lord Abbot ; my fate calls me elsewhere, to scenes 
where I shall end it or mend it.” 

“ ByOur Lady,” said the Abbot, “ I think the youth 
be mad indeed — or that you. Sir Piercie, judged of 
him most truly, when you prophesied that he would prove 
unfit for the promotion we designed him — it may be you 
knew something of this wayward humour before 

By the mass, not I,” answered Sir Piercie Shafton, 
with his usual indifference. ‘‘ I but judged of him by 
his birth and breeding ; for seldom doth a good hawk 
come out of a kite’s egg.” 

“Thou art thyself a kite, and kestrel to boot,” replied 
Halbert Glendinning, without a moment’s hesitatjon. 


10 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ This in our presence, and to a man of worship !” 
said the Abbot, the blood rushing to his face. 

“Yes, my lord,” answered the youth ; “ even in your 
presence I return to this gay man’s face, the causeless 
dishonour which he has flung on my name. My brave 
father, who fell in the cause of his country, demands 
that justice at the hands of his son !” 

“ Unmannered boy !” said the Abbot. 

“ Nay, my good lord,” said the knight, “ praying par- 
don for the coarse interruption, let me intreat you not to 
be wroth with this rustical — Credit me, the north wind 
shall as soon puff* one of your rocks from its basis, as 
aught vvhich I hold so slight and inconsiderate as the 
churlish speech of an untaught churl, shall move the 
spleen of Piercie Shafton.” 

“ Propd as you are. Sir Knight,” said Halbert, “ in 
your imagined superiority, be not too confident that you 
cannot be moved.” 

“ Faith, by nothing that thou canst urge,” said Sir 
Piercie. 

“ Knowest thou then this token ?” said young Glen- 
dinning, offering to him the silver bodkin which he had 
received from the White Lady. 

Never was such an instant change, from the most 
contemptuous serenity to the most furious state of pas- 
sion, as that which Sir Piercie Shafton exhibited. It 
was the difference between a cannon laying quiet in 
its embrasure, and the same gun when touched by the 
linstock. He started up, every limb quivering with rage, 
and his features so inflamed and agitated by passion, that 
he more resembled a demoniac, than a man under the 
regulation of reason. He clenched both his fists, and 
thrusting them forward, offered them furiously at the face 
of Glendinning, who was even himself startled at the 
frantic state of excitation which his action had occasion- 
ed. The next moment he withdrew them, struck his 
open palm against his own forehead, and rushed out of 
the room in a state of indescribable agitation. Th® 


THE MOJfASTERY. 


11 ' 

whole matter had been so sudden, that no person pres- 
ent had time to interfere. 

When Sir Piercie Shafton had left the apartment, 
there was a moment’s pause of astonishment ; and then 
a general demand that Halbert Glendinning should in- 
stantly explain by what means he had produced such a 
violent change in the deportment of the English cavalier. 

“ I did nought to him,” answered Halbert Glendin- 
ning, “ but what you all saw — am I to answer for his 
fantastic freaks of humour 

“ Boy,” said the Abbot, in his most authoritative 
manner, “ these subterfuges shall not avail thee. This 
is not a man to be driven from his temperament without 
some sufficient cause. That cause was given by thee, 
and must have been known to thee. I command thee, 
as thou wilt save thyself from worse measure, to. explain 
to me by what means thou hast moved our friend thus — 
We choose not that our vassals shall drive our guests 
mad in our very presence, and we remain ignorant of the 
means whereby that purpose is effected.” 

“ So may it please your reverence, I did but show 
him this token,” said Halbert Glendinning, delivering it 
at the same time to the Abbot, who looked at it with much 
attention, and then, shaking his head, gravely delivered 
it to the Sub-Prior, without speaking a word. 

Father Eustace looked at the mysterious token with 
some attention ; and then addressing Hajbert in a stern and 
severe voice, said, “ Young man, if thoy^w^uldst not have 
us suspect thee of some strange double-dealing in this 
matter, let us instantly know whence thou hadst this to- 
ken, and how it possesses an influence on Sir Piercie 
Shafton — It would have been extremely difficult for 
Halbert, thus hard pressed, to have either evaded or an- 
swered so puzzling a question. To have avowed the 
truth, might, in those times, have occasioned his being 
burnt at a stake, although, in ours, his confession would 
have only gained for him the credit of a liar beyond all 
rational credibility. He was fortunately relieved by the 


12 


THE MONASTERY. 


return of Sir Piercie Shafton himself, whose ear caught, 
as he entered, the sound of the Sub-Prior’s question. 

Without waiting until Halbert Glendinning replied, he 
came forward whispering to him as he passed, “ Be 
secret — thou shalt have the satisfaction thou hast dared 
to seek for.” 

When he returned to his place, there were still marks 
of discomposure on his brow ; but, becoming apparent- 
ly collected and calm, he looked around him, and apol- 
ogized for the indecorum of which he had been guilty, 
which he ascribed to sudden and severe indisposition. 
All were silent, and looked on each other with some 
surprise. 

The Lord Abbot gave orders for all to retire from the 
apartment, save himself. Sir Piercie Shafton, and the 
Sub-Prior. “ And have an eye,” he added, “ on that 
bold youth, that he escape not ; for if he hath practised 
by charm, or otherwise, on the health of our worshipful 
guest, I swear by the alb and mitre which I wear, that his 
punishment shall be most exemplary.” 

“ My lord and venerable father,” said Halbert, bow- 
ing respectfully, “ fear not but that I will abide my doom 
I think you will best learn from the wwshipful knight 
himself, what is the cause of his distemperature, and 
how slight my share in it has been.” 

“ Be assured,” said the knight, without looking up, 
however, while he spoke, “ I will satisfy the Lord 
Abbot.” 

With these words the company retired, and with them 
young Glendinning. 

When the Abbot, the Sub-Prior, and the English 
knight, were left alone. Father Eustace, contrary to his 
custom, could not help speaking the first. “ Expound 
unto us, noble sir,” he said, “ by what mysterious means 
the production of this simple toy could so far move your 
spirit, and overcome your patience, after you had shown 
yourself proof to all the provocation offered by this self 
sufficient and singular youth .^” 


THE MONASTERY. 


13 


The Knight took the silver bodkin from the good 
father’s hand, looked at it with great composure, and 
having examined it all over, returned it to the Sub-Prior, 
saying at the same time, ‘‘ In truth, venerable father, I 
cannot but marvel, that the wisdom implied alike in your 
silver hairs, and in your eminent rank, should, like a bab- 
bling hound, (excuse the similitude) open thus loudly on 
a false scent. I were, indeed, more slight to be moved 
than the leaves of the aspen-tree, which wag at the least 
breath of heaven, could I be touched by such a trifle as 
this, which in no way concerns me more than if the same 
quantity of silver were stricken into so many groats. 
Truth is, that from my youth upward, I have been sub- 
jected to such a malady as you saw me visited with even 
now — a cruel and searching pain, which goeth through 
nerve and bone, even as a good brand in the hands of a 
brave soldier sheers through limb and sinew — but it 
passes away speedily, as you yourselves may judge.” 

“ Still,” said the Sub-Prior, “ this will not account 
for the youth offering to you this piece of silver, as a 
token by which you were to understand something, and, 
as we must needs conjecture, something disagreeable.” 

“ Your reverence is to conjecture what you will,” 
said Sir Piercie ; “ but I cannot pretend to lay your 
judgment on the right scent when I see it at fault. 1 
hope I am not liable to be called upon to account for the 
foolish actions of a malapert boy 

“ Assuredly,” said the Sub-Prior, “ we shall prose- 
cute no inquiry which is disagreeable to our guest. 
Nevertheless,” said he, looking to his Superior, “ this 
chance may, in some sort, alter the plan your lordship 
had formed for your worshipful guest’s residence for a 
brief term in this tower, as a place alike of secrecy and 
of security ; both of which, in the terms which we now 
stand on with England, are circumstances to be desired.” 

“ In truth,” said the Abbot, “ and the doubt is well 
thought on, were it as we]l removed ; for I scarce know 
in the Halidome so fitting a place of refuge, yet see I 

2 VOL. II. 


14 


THE MONASTERY. 


not how to recommend it to our worshipful guest, con- 
sidering the unrestrained petulance of this headstrong 
youth.” 

“ Tush I reverend sirs, — what would you make of 
me said Sir Piercie Shafton. “ I protest, by mine 
honour, 1 would abide in this house were I to choose. 
What ! I take no exceptions at the youth for showing a 
flash of spirit, though the spark may light on mine own 
head. I honour the lad for it. 1 protest I will' abide 
here, and he shall aid me in striking down a deer. I 
must needs be friends with him, an he be such a shot ; 
and we will speedily send down to my Lord Abbot a buck 
of the first head, killed so artificially as shall satisfy even 
the reverend Kitchener.” 

This was said with such apparent ease and good-hu- 
mour, that the Abbot made no further observation on what 
had passed, but proceeded to acquaint his guest with the 
details of furniture, hangings, provisions, and so forth, 
which he proposed to send up to the Tower of Glendearg 
for his accommodation. This discourse, seasoned with 
a cup or two of wine, served to prolong the time until 
the reverend Abbot ordered his cavalcade to prepare for 
their return to the Monastery. 

“ As we have,” he said, “ in the course of this our 
toilsome journey, lost our meridian,* indulgence shall be 
given to those of our attendants who shall, from very 
weariness, be unable to attend the duty at prime, j- and 
this by way of misericord or indulgentia,^^^ 

Having benevolently intimated a boon to his faithful 
followers, which he probably judged would be far from 
unacceptable, the good Abbot seeing all ready for his 


* The hour of repose at noon, which, in the middle ages was employed in 
slumber, and which the monastic rules of nocturnal vigils rendered necessary, 
t Prime was the midnight service of the Monks. 

t Misericord, according to the learned work of Fosbrooke on British Mona- 
chism, meant not only an indulgence, or exoneration from particular duties but 
also a particular apartment in a Convent, where the Monks assembled to enjoy 
such indulgences or allowances as w'ere granted beyond the rule. 


THE MONASTERY. 


15 


journey, bestowed his blessing on the assembled house- 
hold — gave his hand to be kissed by Dame Glendinning 
— himself kissed the cheek of Mary Avenel, and even 
of the Miller’s maiden, when they approached to render 
him the same homage — commanded Halbert to rule his 
temper, and to be aiding and obedient in all things to 
the English knight — admonished Edward to be disci- 
pulus impiger atque strenuus — then took a courteous 
farewell of Sir Piercie Shafton, advising him to lie close, 
for fear of the English Borderers, who might be employ- 
ed to kidnap him ; and having discharged these various 
offices of courtesy, moved forth to the court-yard, follow- 
ed by the whole establishment. Here, with a heavy sigh 
approaching to a groan, the venerable father heaved him- 
self upon his palfrey, whose dark purple housings swept 
the ground ; and, greatly comforted that the discretion 
of the animal’s pace would be no longer disturbed by the 
gambadoes of Sir Piercie and his prancing war-horse, 
he set forth at a sober and steady trot upon his return to 
the Monastery. 

When the Sub-Prior had mounted to accompany his 
principal, his eye sought out Halbert, who, partly hidden 
by a projection of the outward wall of the court, stood 
apart from, and gazing upon the departing cavalcade, and 
the group which assembled around them. Unsatisfied 
with the explanation he had received concerning the 
mysterious transaction of the silver bodkin, yet interesting 
himself in the youth, of whose character he had formed 
a favourable idea, the worthy Monk resolved to take an 
early opportunity of investigating that matter. In the 
meanwhile, he looked upon Halbert with a serious and 
warning aspect, and held up his finger to him as he sign- 
ed farewell. He then joined the rest of the churchmen, 
and followed his Superior down the valley. 


16 


THE MONASTERY. 


CHAPTER II. 


I hope you’ll give me cause to think you noble, 

And do me right with your sword, sir, as becomes 
One gentleman of honour to another ; 

All this is fair, Sir — let us make no days on’t, 

I’ll lead your way. 

Love's Pilgrimage. 

The look and sign of warning which the Sub-Prior 
gave to Halbert Glendinning as they parted, went to his 
heart ; for, although he had profited much less than 
Edward by the good man’s instructions, he had a sincere 
reverence for his person ; and even the short time he 
had for deliberation, tended to show him he was em- 
barked in a perilous adventure. The nature of the pro- 
vocation which he had given to Sir Piercie Shafton he 
could not even conjecture ; but he saw that it was of a 
mortal quality, and he was now to abide the consequences. 

That he might not force these consequences forward, 
by any premature renewal of their quarrel, he resolved 
to walk apart for an hour, and consider on what terms 
he was to meet this haughty foreigner. The time seem- 
ed propitious for his doing so, without having the appear- 
ance of wilfully shunning the stranger, as all the members 
of the little household were dispersing, either to perform 
such tasks as had been interrupted by the arrival of the 
dignitaries, or to put in order wliat had been deranged by 
their visit. 

Leaving the tower, therefore, and descending, unob- 
served as he thought, the knoll on which it stood. Hal- 
bert gained the little piece of level ground which extend- 
ed hetwixt the descent of the hill, and the first sweep 
made by the brook after washing the foot of the emi- 
nence on which the tower was situated, where a few 
straggling birch and oak-trees served to secure him from 


THE MOIfASTERY. 


17 


observation. But scarcely had he reached the spot, when 
he was surprised to feel a smart tap upon the shoulder, 
and, turning around, he perceived he had been closely 
followed by Sir Piercie Shafton. 

When, whether from our state of animal spirits, want 
of confidence in the justice of our cause, or any other 
motive, our own courage happens to be in a wavering 
condition, nothing tends so much altogether to disconcert 
us as a great appearance of promptitude on the part of 
our antagonist. Halbert Glendinning, both morally and 
constitutionally intrepid, was nevertheless somewhat 
troubled at seeing the stranger, whose resentment he had 
provoked, appear at once before him, and with an aspect 
which boded hostility. But though his heart might beat 
somewhat thicker, he was too high-spirited to exhibit any 
external signs of emotion. — “ What is your pleasure. Sir 
Piercie he said to the English knight, enduring with- 
out apparent discomposure all the terrors which his 
antagonist had summoned into his aspect. 

“ What is my pleasure f” answered Sir Piercie ; ‘‘ a 
goodly question, after the part you have acted towards 
me ! — Young man, I know not what infatuation has led 
thee to place thyself in direct and insolent opposition to 
one who is a guest of thy liege-lord the Abbot, and who, 
even from the courtesy due to thy mother’s roof, had a 
right to remain there without meeting insult. Neither 
do 1 ask, or care, by what means thou hast become pos- 
sessed of the fatal secret by which thou hast dared to 
offer me open shame. But I must now tell thee, that 
the possession of it hath cost thee thy life.” 

“ Not, I trust, if my hand and sword can defend it,” 
replied Halbert, boldly. 

‘ True,” said the Englishman, “ I mean not to de- 
prive thee of thy fair chance of self-defence. I am 
only sorry to think, that, young and country-bred as 
thou art, it can but little avail thee. But thou must be 
well aware, that in this quarrel I shall use no terms of 
quarter.” 

2 * VOL. II. 


18 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Rely on it, proud man,’’ answered the youth, “ that 
I shall ask none ; and although thou speakest as if I lay 
already at thy feet, trust me, that as i am determined 
never to ask thy mercy, so I am not fearful of needing it.” 

“ Thou wilt, then,” said the knight, “ do nothing to 
avert the certain fate which thou hast provoked with 
such wantonness 

“ And how were that to be purchased replied 
Halbert Glendinning, more with the wish of obtaining 
some farther insight into the terms on which he stood 
with this stranger, than to make him the submission which 
he might require. 

“ Explain to me instantly,” said Sir Piercie, “ without 
equivocation or delay, by what means thou wert enabled 
to wound my honour so deeply — and shouldst thou point 
out to me by so doing an enemy more worthy of my 
resentment, T will permit thine own obscure insignificance 
to draw a veil over thine insolence.” 

“ This is too high a flight,” said Glendinning, fiercely, 
“ for thine own presumption to soar without being check- 
ed. Thou hast come to my father’s house, as well as 
1 can guess, a fugitive and an exile, and thy first greeting 
to its inhabitants has been that of contempt and injury. 
By what means I have been able to retort that contempt, 
let thine own conscience tell thee. Enough for me that 
I stand on the privilege of a free Scotchman, and will 
brook no insult unreturned, and no injury unrequited.” 

“ It is well then,” said Sir Piercie Shafton ; “ we 
will dispute this matter to-morrow morning with our 
swords. Let the time he day-break, and do thou assign 
the place. We will go forth as if to strike a deer.” 

“Content,” replied Halbert Glendinning; “I will 
guide thee to a spot where an hundred men might fight 
and fall without any chance of interruption.” 

“ It is well,” answered Sir Piercie Shafton. “ Here 
then we part. — Many will say, that in thus indulging the 
right of a gentleman to the son of a clod-breaking peas- 
ant, I derogate from my sphere even as the blessed sun 
would derogate should he condescend to compare and 


THE MONASTERY. 


19 


match his golden beams with the twinkle of a pale, 
blinking, expiring, gross-fed taper. But no consideration 
of rank shall prevent my avenging the insult thou hast 
offered me. We bear a smooth face, observe me, Sir 
Villagio, before the worshipful inmates of yonder cabin, 
and to-morrow we try conclusions with our swords.” 
So saying, he turned away towards the tower. 

It may not be unworthy of notice, that in the last speech 
only, had Sir Piercie used some of those flowers of 
rhetoric which characterised the usual style of his con- 
versation. Apparently a sense of wounded honour, and 
the deep desire of vindicating his injured feelings, had 
proved too strong for the fantastic affectation of his acquir- 
ed habits. Indeed, such is usually the influence of en- 
ergy of mind, when called forth and exerted, that Sir 
Piercie Shafton had never appeared in the eyes of his 
youthful antagonist half so much deserving of esteem and 
respect as in this brief dialogue, by which they exchang- 
ed mutual defiance. As he followed him slowly to the 
tower, he could not help thinking to himself, that, had 
the English knight always displayed this superior tone of 
bearing and feeling, he would not probably have felt so 
earnestly disposed to take offence at his hand. Mortal 
offence, however, had been exchanged, and the matter 
was to be put to mortal arbitrement. 

The family met at the evening meal, when Sir Piercie 
Shafton extended tlm benignity of his countenance and 
the graces of his conversation far more generally over 
the party than he had hitherto condescended to do. 
The greater part of his attention was, of course, still en- 
grossed by his divine and inimitable Discretion, as he 
chose to term Mary Avenel ; but, nevertheless, there 
were interjectional flourishes to the maid of the mill, un- 
der the title of Comely Damsel, and to the dame, under 
that of Worthy Matron. Nay, lest he should fail to 
excite their admiration by the graces of his rhetoric, he 
generously, and without solicitation, added those of his 
voice ; and after regretting bitterly the absence of his 
viol-de-gamba, he regaled them with a song, which,” 


20 


THE MOXASTERT. 


said he, “ the inimitable Astrophel, whom mortals call 
Philip Sidney, composed in the non-age of his muse, 
to show the world what they are to expect from his riper 
years, and which will one day see the light in that not- 
to-be-paralleled perfection of human wit, which he has 
addressed to his sister, the matchless Parthenope, whom 
men call Countess of Pembroke ; a work,” he continu- 
ed, “ whereof his friendship hath permitted me, though 
unworthy, to be an occasional partaker, and whereof I 
may well say, that the deep afflictive tale which awak- 
eneth our sorrows, is so relieved with brilliant similitudes, 
dulcet descriptions, pleasant poems, and engaging inter- 
ludes, that they seem as the stars of the firmament, beau- 
tifying the dusky robe of night. And though I wot well 
how much the lovely and quaint language will suflJer by 
my widowed voice, widowed in that it is no longer 
matched by my beloved viol-de-gamba, I will essay to 
give you a taste of the ravishing sweetness of the poesy 
of the un-to-be-imitated Astrophel.” 

So saying, he sung without mercy or remorse about 
five hundred verses, of which the two first and the four 
last may suffice for a specimen — 

What tongue can her perfections tell, 

On whose each part all pens may dwell. 

Of whose high praise and praiseful bliss, 

Goodness the pen, Heaven paper is j 
The ink immortal fame doth send. 

As I began so I must end. 


As Sir Piercie Shafton always sung with his eyes half 
shut, it was not until, agreeably to the promise of his 
poetry, he had fairly made an end, that, looking round, 
he discovered that the greater part of his audience had, 
in the meanwhile, yielded to the charms of repose. 
Mary Avenel, indeed, from a natural sense of politeness, 
had contrived to keep awake through all the prolixities of 
the divine Astrophel ; but Mysie was transported m 
dreams back to the dusty atmosphere of her father’s mill ; 


THE MOXASTEliY. 


21 


Edward himself, who had given his attention for some 
time, had at length fallen fast asleep ; and the good 
dame’s nose, could its tones have been put under regula- 
tion, might have supplied the bass of the lamented viol- 
de-gamba. Halbert, however, who had no temptation to 
give way to the charms of slumber, remained awake, 
with his eyes fixed on the songster ; not that he was bet- 
ter entertained with the words, or more ravished with the 
execution, than the rest of the company, but rather be- 
cause he admired, or perhaps envied, the composure, 
which could thus spend the evening in interminable 
madrigals, when the next morning was to be devoted to 
deadly combat. Yet it struck his natural acuteness of 
observation, that the eye of the gallant cavalier did now 
and then, furtively as it were, seek a glance of his coun- 
tenance, as if to discover how he was taking the exhibi- 
tion of his antagonist’s composure and serenity of mind. 

“ He shall read nothing in my countenance,” thought 
Halbert, proudly, “ that can make him think my indif- 
ference less than his own.” 

And taking from the shelf a bag full of miscellaneous 
matters collected for the purpose, he began with great 
industry to dress hooks, and had finished half-a-dozen of 
flies (we are enabled, for the benefit of those who ad- 
mire the antiquities of the gentle art of angling, to state 
that they were brown hackles,) by the time that Sir Pier- 
cie had arrived at the conclusion of his long-winded 
strophes of the divine Astrophel. So that he also tes- 
tified a magnanimous contempt of that which to-morrow 
should bring forth. 

As it now waxed late, the family of Glendearg sepa- 
rated for the evening ; Sir Piercie first saying to the 
dame that her son Albert ” 

“ Halbert,” said Elspeth, with emphasis, “ Halbert; 
after his goodsire. Halbert Brydone.” 

“ Well then, 1 have prayed your son Halbert, that we 
may strive to-morrow with the sun’s earliness to wake 
a stag from his lair, that I may see whether he be as 
prompt at that sport as fame bespeaks him.” 


22 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Alas ! sir,” answered Dame Elspeth, ‘‘ he is but too 
prompt, an you talk of promptitude, at any thing that has 
steel at one end of it and mischief at the other. But 
he is at your honourable disposal, and I trust you will 
teach him how obedience is due to our venerable father 
and lord, the Abbot, and prevail with him to -‘take the 
bow-bearer’s place in fee ; for, as the two worthy monks 
said, it will be a great help to a widow^-w^oman.” 

“ Trust me, good dame,” replied Sir Piercie, “ it is 
my purpose so to indoctrinate him, touching his conduct 
and bearing towards his betters, that he shall not lightly 
depart from the reverence due to them. — We«ie:et, then, 
beneath the birch-trees in the plain,” he said, looking to 
Halbert, “ so soon as the eye of day hath opened its 
lids.” — Halbert answered with a sign of acquiescence, 
and the knight proceeded, “ And now, having wished 
to my fairest Discretion those pleasant dreams which 
wave their pinions around the couch of sleeping beauty, 
and to this comely damsel the bounties of Morpheus, and 
to all others the common good-night, I will crave you 
leave to depart to ray place of rest, though I may say 
with the poet, 

^ Ah rest ! — no rest but change of place and posture ; 

Ah sleep ! — no sleep but worn-out Nature’s swooning ; 

Ah bed ! — no bed but cushion fill’d with stones : 

Rest, sleep, nor bed, await not on an exile.’ ” 

With a delicate obeisance he left the room, evading 
Dame Glendinning, who hastened to assure him he would 
find his accommodations for repose much more agreea- 
ble than they had been the night before, there having 
been store of warm coverlets, and a soft feather-bed, 
sent up from the Abbey. But the good knight probably 
thought that the grace and effect of his exit would be 
diminished, if he were recalled from his heroics to dis- 
cuss such sublunary and domestic topics, and therefore 
hastened away without waiting to hear her out. 


THE MONASTERY. 


23 


“ A pleasant gentleman,” said Dame Glendinning ; 
“ but 1 will warrant him an humorous* — And sings a 
sweet song, though it is somewhat of the longest. — Well, 
1 make mine avow he is goodly company — 1 wonder when 
he will go away.” 

Having thus expressed her respect for her guest, not 
without intimation that she was heartily tired of his com- 
pany, the good dame gave the signal for the family to 
disperse, and laid her injunctions on Halbert to attend 
Sir Piercie Shafton at daybreak, as he required. 

When stretched on his pallet by his brother’s side. 
Halbert had no small cause to envy the sound sleep which 
instantly settled on the eyes of Edward, but refused him 
any share of its influence. He saw now too well what 
the Spirit had darkly indicated, that, in granting the boon 
wdiich he had asked so unadvisedly, she had contributed 
more to his harm than his good. He was now sensible, 
too late, of the various dangers antjjnconveniences with 
which his dearest friends were thr^'atened, alike by his 
discomfiture or his success in the approaching duel. If 
he fell, he might say personally, “ good-night all.” But 
it was not the less certain that he should leave a dread- 
ful legacy of distress and embarrassment to his mother 
and family, — an anticipation which by no means tended 
to render the front of death, in itself a grisly object, more 
agreeable to his imagination. The vengeance of the Ab- 
bot, his conscience told him, was sure to descend on his 
mother and brother, or could only be averted by the gen- 
erosity of the victor — And Mary Avenel — he should have 
shown himself, if he succumbed in the present combat, 
as inefficient in protecting her, as he had been unneces- 
sarily active in bringing disaster on her, and on the house 
in which she had been protected from infancy. And to 
this view of the case were to be added all those embit- 
tered and anxious feelings with which the bravest men, 


•* Humormis—iuW of whims. Thus Shakspeare, " Humorous as winter.''- 
The vulgar word humorsome comes nearest to the meaning. 


24 THE MOXASTEIIT. 

even in a better or less doubtful quarrel, regard the issue 
of a dubious conflict, the first time when it has been 
their fate to engage in an affair of that nature. 

But however disconsolate the prospect seemed in the 
event of his being conquered. Halbert could expect from 
victory little more than the safety of his own life, and the 
gratification of his wounded pride. To his friends — to 
his mother and brother — especially to Mary Avenel — 
the consequences of his triumph would be more certain 
destruction than the contingency of his defeat and death. 
If the English knight survived, he might in courtesy ex- 
tend his protection to them ; but if he fell, nothing was 
likely to screen them from the vindictive measures which 
the Abbot and convent would surely adopt against the 
violation of the peace of the Halidome, and the slaugh- 
ter of a protected guest by one of their own vassals, with- 
in whose house they had lodged him for shelter. 

These thoughts, in which neither view of the case 
augured aught short of ruin to his family, and that ruin 
entirely brought on by his own rashness, were thorns in 
Halbert Glendinning’s pillow, and deprived his soul of 
peace, and his eyes of slumber. 

There appeared no middle course, saving one which 
was marked by degradation, and which, even if he stoop- 
ed to it, was by no means free of danger. He might 
indeed confess to the English knight the strange circum- 
stances which led to his presenting him with that token 
which the White Lady (in her displeasure as it now 
seemed) had given him, that he might offer it to Sir 
Piercie Shafton. But to this avowal his pride could not 
stoop, and reason, who is w^onderfully ready to be of coun- 
sel with pride on such occasions, offered many argu- 
ments to show it would be useless as well as mean so 
far to degrade himself. “ If 1 tell a tale so wonderful,” 
thought he, “ shall I not either be stigmatized as a liar, 
or punished as a wizard ?— Were Sir Piercie Shafton 
generous, noble, and benevolent, as the champions of 
whom we hear in romance, I might indeed gain bis ear, 
and, without demeaning myself, escape from the situ- 


THE MONASTERY. 


25 


ation in which I am placed. But as he is, or at least seems 
to be, self-conceited, arrogant, vain, and presumptuous — 
I should but humble myself in vain — And I will not hum- 
ble myself !” he said, starting out of bed, grasping to his 
broad-sword, and brandishing it in the light of the moon, 
which streamed through the deep niche that served them 
as a window ; when, to his extreme surprise and terror, 
an airy form stood in the moonlight, but intercepted not 
the reflection on the floor. Dimly as it was expressed, 
the sound of the voice soon made him sensible he saw 
the White Lady. 

At no time had her presence seemed so terrific to him ; 
for when he had invoked her, it was with the expectation 
of the apparition, and the determination to abide the issue. 
But now she had come uncalled, and her presence im- 
pressed him with a sense of approaching misfortune, and 
with the hideous apprehension that he had associated 
himself with a demon, over whose motions he had no 
control, and of whose powers and quality he had no 
certain knowledge. He remained, therefore, in mere 
terror, gazing on the apparition, which chanted or recited 
in cadence the following lines— 

“ He whose heart for vengeance sued, 

Must not shrink from shedding blood ; 

The knot that thou hast tied with word, 

Thou must loose by edge of sword." 

“ Avaunt thee, false Spirit !” said Halbert Glendin- 
ning ; ‘‘ I have bought thy advice too dearly already — 
Begone, in the name of God !” 

The Spirit laughed ; and the cold unnatural sound 
of her laughter had something in it more fearful than the 
usual melancholy tones of her voice. She then replied, 

“ You have summon’d me once — you liave summon d me Uvice, 
And without e’er a summons I come to you thrice ; 

Unask’d for, unsued for, you came to my glen. 

Unsued and unask’d, I am with you again." 

3 VOL. II. 


26 


THE MONASTERY. 


Halbert Glendinning gave way for a moment to terroi . 
and called on his brother, “ Edward ! waken, waken, 
for Our Lady’s sake !” 

Edward awaked accordingly, and asked what he 
wanted. 

“ Look out,” said Halbert, “ look up ! seest thou no 
one in the room 

“ No, upon my good word,” said Edward, looking out. 

“ What ! seest thou nothing in the moonshine upon 
the floor there 

“ No, nothing,” answered Edward, “ save thyself, 
resting on thy naked sword. I tell thee. Halbert, thou 
should’st trust more to thy spiritual arms, and less to those 
of steel and iron. For this many a night hast thou 
started and moaned, and cried out of fighting, and of 
spectres, and of goblins — thy sleep hath not refreshed 
thee — thy waking hath been a dream. — Credit me, dear 
Halbert, say the Pater and Credo, resign thyself to the 
protection of God, and thou wilt sleep sound and wake 
in comfort.” 

“ It may be,” said Halbert slowly, and having his eye 
still bent on the female form which to him seemed dis- 
tinctly visible, — “ it may be — But tell me, dear Edward, 
seest thou no one on the chamber floor but me .?” 

“ No one,” answered Edward, raising himself on his 
elbow ; “ dear brother, lay aside thy weapon, say thy 
prayers, and lay thee down to rest.” 

While he thus spoke, the Spirit smiled at Halbert as 
if in scorn ; her. wan cheek faded in the wan moonlight 
even before the smile had passed away, and Halbert 
himself no longer beheld the vision to which he had so 
anxiously solicited his brother’s attention. “ May God 
preserve my wits !” he said, as, laying aside his weapon, 
he again threw himself on his bed. 

“ Amen ! my dearest brother,” answered Edward ; 

but we must not provoke that heaven in our wantonness 
which we invoke in our misery. — Be not angry with me, 
my dear brother. 1 know not why you have totally of 
late estranged yourseff from me — It is true, I am neither 


THE MONASTERY. 


27 


SO athletic in body, nor so alert in courage, as you have 
been from your infancy ; yet, till lately, you have not 
absolutely cast off my society — Believe me, 1 have wept 
in secret, though 1 forbore to intrude myself on your 
privacy. The time has been when you held me not so 
cheap ; and when, if I could not follow the game so 
closely, or mark it so truly as you, 1 could fill up our 
intervals of pastime with pleasant tales of the olden times, 
which I had read or heard, and which excited even your 
attention as we sat and eat our provision by some pleas- 
ant spring — but now I have, though 1 know not why, lost 
thy regard and affection. — Nay, toss not thy arms about 
thee thus wildly,” said the younger brother ; “ from thy 
strange dreams, 1 fear some touch of fever hath affected 
thy blood — let me draw closer around thee thy mantle.” 

“ Forbear,” said Halbert — “ your care is needless 
— your complaints are without reason — your fears on my 
account are in vain.” 

“ Nay, but hear me, brother,” said Edward. “ Your 
speech in sleep, and now even your waking dreams, are 
of beings which belong not to this world or to our race— 
Our good Father Eustace says, that howbeit we may not 
do well to receive all idle tales of goblins and spectres, 
yet there is warrant from holy Scripture to believe, that 
the fiends haunt waste and solitary places ; and that those 
who frequent such wildernesses alone, are the prey, or 
the sport of these wandering demons. And therefore, I 
pray thee, brother, let me go with you when you go next 
up the glen, where, as you well know, there be places 
of evil reputation— Thou carest not for my escort ; but. 
Halbert, such dangers are more safely encountered by 
the wise in judgment, than by the bold in bosom ; and 
though I have small cause to boast of my own wisdom, 
yet I have that which ariseth from the written knowledge 
of elder times.” 

There was a moment during this discourse, when 
Halber*. had well nigh come to the resolution of disbur- 
dening Ins own oreast, by intrusting Edward with all 
that weighed upon it. But when his brother reminded 


28 


THE MONASTERY. 


him that this was the morning of a high holiday, and 
that, setting aside all other business or pleasure, he ought 
to go to the Monastery and shrive himself before Father 
Eustace, who would that day occupy the confessional, 
pride stepped in and confirmed his wavering resolution. 
“ I will not avow,” he thought, “ a tale so extraordina- 
ry, that I may be considered as an impostor, or some- 
thing worse — I will not fiy from this Englishman, whose 
arm and sword may be no better than my own. My 
fathers have faced his betters, were he as much distin- 
guished in battle as he is by his quaint discourse.” 

Pride, which has been said to save man, and woman 
too, from falling, has yet a stronger influence on the mind, 
when it embraces the cause of passion, and seldom fails 
to render it victorious over conscience and reason. Hal- 
bert once determined, though not to the better course, 
at length slept soundly, and was only awakened by the 
dawn of day. 


CHAPTER III. 

Indifferent, but indifferent — pshaw, he doth it not 
Like one who is his craft’s master — ne’ertheless 
1 have seen a clown confer a bloody coxcomb 
On one who was a master of defence. 

Old Play. 

With the first grey peep of dawn. Halbert Glendin- 
ning arose and hastened to dress himself, girded on his 
weapon, and took a cross-bow in his hand, as if his usual 
sport had been his sole object. He groped his way 
down the dark and winding staircase, and undid, with as 
little noise as possible, the fastenings of the inner door 
and of the exterior iron grate. At length he stood free 
in the court-yard, and looking up to the tower, saw a 
signal made with a handkerchief from the window 


TUE MONASTERY. 


29 


Nothing doubting that it was his antagonist, he paused, 
expecting him. But it was Mary Avenel, who glided, 
like a spirit, from under the low and rugged portal. 

Halbert was much surprised, and felt, he knew not 
why, like one caught in the act of a meditated trespass. 
The presence of Mary Avenel had, till that moment, 
never given him pain. She spoke, too,in a tone where 
sorrow seemed to mingle with reproach, while she asked 
him with emphasis, “ What he was about to do 

He showed his cross-bow, and was about to express 
the pretext he had meditated, when Mary interrupted 
him. 

“ Not so. Halbert — that evasion were unworthy of one 
whose word has hitherto been truth. You meditate not 
the destruction of the deer — your hand and your heart 
are aimed at other game — you seek to do battle with this 
stranger.” 

‘‘ And wherefore should 1 quarrel with our guest 
answered Halbert, blushing deeply. 

“ There are, indeed, many reasons why you should 
not,” replied the maiden, “ nor is there one of avail 
wherefore you should — yet, nevertheless, such a quarrel 
you are now searching after.” 

“ Why should you suppose so, Mary .?” said Halbert, 
endeavouring to hide his conscious purpose, — “ he is my 
mother’s guest — he is protected by the Abbot and the 
community, who are our masters — he is of high degree 
also, and wherefore should you think that I can, or dare, 
resent a hasty word, which he has perchance thrown out 
against me more from the wantonness of his wit, than the 
purpose of his heart 

“ Alas !” answered the maiden, “ the very asking that 
question puts your resolution beyond a doubt. Since 
your childhood you were ever daring, seeking danger 
rather than avoiding it — delighting in whatever had the 
air of adventure and of courage : and it is not from fear 
that you will now blench from your purpose — O let it then 
be from pity ! — from pity. Halbert, to your aged mother, 
3 * VOL. M. 


30 


THE MONASTERY. 


whom your death or victory will alike deprive of the 
comfort and stay of her age.” 

“ She has my brother Edward,” said Halbert, turning 
suddenly from her. 

“ She has indeed,” said Mary Avenel, “ the calm, 
the noble-minded, the considerate Edward, who has thy 
courage. Halbert, without thy fiery rashness, — thy gen- 
erous spirit, with more of reason to guide it. He would 
not have heard his mother, would not have heard his 
adopted sister, beseech him in vain not to ruin himself, 
and tear up their future hopes of happiness and protec- 
tion.” 

Halbert’s heart swelled as he replied to this reproach, 
“ Well — what avails it speaking ? — you have him that is 
better than me — wiser, more considerate — braver, for 
aught that 1 know — you are provided with a protector, 
and need care no more for me.” 

Again he turned to depart, but Mary Avenel laid her 
hand on his arm so gently that he scarce felt her hold, 
yet felt that it was impossible for him to strike it off. 
There he stood, one foot advanced to leave the court- 
yard, but so little determined on departure, that he re- 
sembled a traveller arrested by the spell of a magician, 
and unable either to quit the attitude of motion, or to 
proceed on his course. 

Mary Avenel availed herself of his state of suspense. 
“ Hear me,” she said, “ hear me. Halbert — T am an 
orphan, and even Heaven hears the orphan — I have been 
the companion of your infancy, and if you will not' hear 
me for an instant, from whom may Mary Avenel claim 
so poor a boon 

“ I hear you,” said Halbert Glendinning, “ but be 
brief, dear Mary — you mistake the nature of my business 
— it is but a morning of summer sport which we propose.” 

“ Say not thus,” said the maiden, interrupting him, 
“ say not thus to me — others thou may’st deceive, but 
me thou canst not — There has been that in me from tha 
earliest youth, which fraud flies from, and which impos- 
ture cannot deceive. For what fate has given me such 


THE MONASTERY. 


31 


a power I know not ; but bred an ignorant maiden in 
this sequestered valley, mine eyes can Joo often see what 
man would most willingly hide — I can judge of the dark 
purpose, though it is hid under the smiling brow, and a 
glance of the eye says more to me than oaths and protes- 
tations do to others.” 

“ Then,” said Halbert, “ if thou canst so read the 
human heart, — say, dear Mary — what dost thou see in 
mine ? — tell me that — say that what thou seest — what 
thou readest in this bosom, does not offend thee — say but 
that, and thou shalt be the guide of my actions, and 
mould me now and henceforward to honour or to dishon- 
our at thy own free will!” 

Mary Avenel became first red, and then deadly pale, 
as Halbert Glendinning spoke. But when, turning round 
at the close of his address, he took her hand, she gently 
withdrew it, and replied, “ I cannot read the heart. Hal- 
bert, and I would not of my will know aught of yours, 
save what beseems us both — I only can judge of signs, 
words, and actions of little outward import, more truly 
than those around me, as my eyes, thou knowest, have 
seen objects not presented to those of others.” 

“ Let them gaze then on one whom they shall never see 
more,” said Halbert, once more turning from her, and 
rushing out of the court-yard without again looking back. 

Mary Avenel gave a faint scream, and clasped both her 
hands firmly on her forehead and eyes. She had been 
a minute in this attitude, when she was thus greeted by a 
voice from behind : “ Generously done, my most clement 
Discretion, to hide those brilliant eyes from the far infe- 
rior beams which even now begin to gild the eastern 
horizon — Certes, peril there were that Phoebus, outshone 
in splendour, might in very shamefacedness turn back 
his car, and rather leave the world in darkness, than in- 
cur the disgrace of such an encounter — Credit me, 
lovely Discretion ” 

But as Sir Piercie Shafton (the reader will readily set 
down these flowers of eloquence to the proper owner,) 
attempted to take Mary Avenel’s hand, in order to pro- 


32 


THE MONASTERY. 


ceed in his speech, she shook him abruptly off, and re- 
garding him with an eye which evinced terror and 
agitation, rushed past him into the tower. 

The Knight stood looking after her with a countenance in 
which contempt was strongly mingled with mortification. 

“ By my knighthood !” he ejaculated, “ I have thrown 
away upon this rude rustic Phidele a speech which the 
proudest beauty at the court of Felicia (so let me call 
the Elysium from which I am banished !) might have 
termed the very matins of Cupid. Hard and inexorable 
was the fate that sent thee thither, Piercie Shafton, to 
waste thy wit upon country wenches, and thy valour upon 
hob-nailed clowns ! But that insult — that affront — had 
it been offered to me by the lowest plebeian, he must have 
died for it by my hand, in respect the enormity of the 
offence doth countervail the inequality of him by whom 
it was given. I trust 1 shall find this clownish roisterer not 
less willing to deal in blows than in taunts.” 

While he held this conversation with himself. Sir Pier- 
cie Shafton was hastening to the little tuft of birch-trees 
which had been assigned as the place of meeting. He 
greeted his antagonist with a courtly salutation, followed 
by this commentary : ‘‘ 1 pray you to observe, that 1 doff 
my hat to you, though so much my inferior in rank, with- 
out derogation on my part, inasmuch as my having so far 
honoured you in receiving and admitting your defiance, 
doth, in the judgment of the best martialists, in some 
sort and for the time, raise you to a level with me — an 
honour which you may and ought to account cheaply ^ 
purchased, even with the loss of your life, if such should 
chance to be the issue of this duello.” 

“For which condescension,” said Halbert, “ I have 
to thank the token which 1 presented to you.” 

The knight changed colour, and grinded his teeth with 
rage — “ Draw your weapon!” said he to Glendinning. 

“ Not in this spot,” answered the youth ; “ we should 
be liable to interruption — Follow me, and I will bring 
you to a place where w3 shall encounter no such risk.” 


THE MOXASTERY. 


33 


He proceeded to walk up the glen, resolving that their 
place of combat should be in the entrance of the Corri- 
nan-shian, both because the spot, lying under the repu- 
tation of being haunted, was very little frequented, and 
also because he regarded it as a place which to him might 
be termed fated, and which he therefore resolved should 
witness his death or victory. 

They walked up the glen for some time in silence, 
like honourable enemies who did not wish to contend with 
words, and who had nothing friendly to exchange with 
each other. Silence, however, was always an irksome 
state with Sir Piercie, and moreover, his anger was 
usually a hasty and short-lived passion. As, therefore, 
he went forth, in his own idea, in all love and honour 
towards his antagonist, he saw not any cause for submit- 
ting longer to the painful restraint of positive silence. He 
began by complimenting Halbert on the alert activity 
with which he surmounted the obstacles and impediments 
of the way. 

‘‘ Trust me,” said he, “ worthy rustic, we have not a 
lighter or a firmer step in our courtlike revels, and if duly 
set forth by a silk hose, and trained unto that stately 
exercise, your leg would make an indifferent good show 
in a pavin or a galliard. And I doubt nothing,” he ad- 
ded, “ that you have availed yourself of some opportuni- 
ty to improve yourself in the art of fence, which is more 
akin than dancing to our present purpose ?” 

I know nothing more of fencing,” said Halbert, “ than 
hath been taught me by an old shepherd of ours, called 
Martin, and at whiles a lesson from Christie of the Clint- 
hill — for the rest, I must trust to good sword, strong arm, 
and sound heart.” 

“ Marry and I am glad of it, young Audacity, (I will 
call you my Audacity, and you may call me your Con- 
descension, while we are on these terms of unnatural 
equality,) I am glad of your ignorance with all my heart. 
For we martialists proportion the punishments which we 
inflict upon our opposites, to the length and hazard of the 
efforts wherewith they oppose themselves to us. And I 


34 


THE MONASTERY. 


see not why you, being but a tyro, may not be held suf- 
ficiently punished for your outrecuidance and orgillous 
presumption, by the loss of an ear, an eye, or even of a 
finger, accompanied by some flesh-wound of depth and 
severity, suited to your error — whereas, had you been 
able to stand more eflectually on your defence, I see not 
how less than your life could have atoned sufficiently for 
your presumption.” 

“ Now, by God and Our Lady,” said Halbert, una- 
ble any longer to restrain himself, “ thou art thyself over- 
presumptuous, who speakest thus daringly of the issue 
of a combat which is not yet even begun — Are you a 
god, that you already dispose of my life and limbs f or 
are you a judge in the justice-air, telling at your ease and 
without risk, how the head and quarters of a condemned 
criminal are to be disposed of 

“ Not so, O thou, whom 1 have well permitted to call 
thyself my Audacity ! I, thy Condescension, am neither 
a god to judge the issue of the combat before it is fought, 
nor a judge to dispose at my ease and in safety of the 
limbs and head of a condemned criminal ; but I am an 
indifferent good master of fence, being the first pupil of 
the first master of the first school of fence that our royal 
England affords, the said master being no other than the 
truly noble, and all-unutterably-skilful Vincentio Saviola, 
from whom 1 learned the firm step, quick eye, and nim- 
ble hand — of which qualities thou, O my most rustical 
Audacity, art full like to reap the fruits so soon as we shall 
find a piece of ground fitting for such experiments.” 

They had now reached the gorge of the ravine where 
Halbert had at first intended to stop ; but when he ob- 
served the narrowness of the level ground, he began to 
consider that it was only by superior agility that he could 
expect to make up his deficiency in the science, as it was 
called, of defence. He found no spot which afforded 
sufficient room to traverse for this purpose, until he 
gained the well-known fountain, by whose margin, and 
in front of the huge rock from which it sprung, was an 
amphitheatre of level turf, of small space indeed, com 


THE MONASTERY. 


35 


pared with the great height of the cliffs with which it was 
surrounded on every point save that from which the rivulet 
issued forth, yet large enough for their present purpose. 

When they had reached this spot of ground, fitted well 
by its gloom and sequestered situation to be a scene of 
mortal strife, both were surprised to observe that a grave 
was dug close by the foot of the rock with great neatness 
and regularity, the green turf being laid down upon the 
one side, and the earth thicown out in a heap upon the 
other. A mattock and shovel lay by the verge of the 
grave. 

Sir Piercie Shafton bent his eye with unusual serious- 
ness upon Halbert Glendinning, as he asked him stern- 
ly ; “ Does this bode treason, young man f And have 
you purpose to set upon me here as in an emboscata or 
place of vantage 

“ Not on my part, by heaven !” answered the youth ; 

I told no one of our purpose, nor would I for the throne 
of Scotland take odds against a single arm.” 

“ I believe thou wouldst not, mine Audacity,” said the 
Knight, resuming the affected manner which was become 
a second nature to him ; “ nevertheless this fosse is cu- 
riously well shaped, and might be the master-piece of 
Nature’s last bed-maker, I would say the sexton — Where- 
fore let us be thankful to chance, or some unknown friend, 
who hath thus provided for one of us the decencies of 
sepulture ; and let us proceed to determine which shall 
have the advantage of enjoying this place of undisturbed 
slumber.” 

So saying, he stripped off his doublet and cloak, which 
he folded up with great care, and deposited upon a large 
stone, while Halbert Glendinning, not without some emo- 
tion, followed his example. Their vicinity to the favour- 
ite haunt of the White Lady led him to form conjectures 
concerning the incident of the grave — “It must have 
been her work !” he thought : “ the Spirit foresaw and 
has provided for the fatal event of the combat — I must 
return from this place a homicide, or I must remain here 
for ever 


36 


THE MONASTERY. 


The bridge seemed now broken down behind him, 
and the chance of coming off honourably without killing 
or being killed, (the hope of which issue has cheered 
the sinking heart of many a duellist,) seemed now to be 
altogether removed. Yet the very desperation of his 
situation gave him, on an instant’s reflection, both firm- 
ness and courage, and presented to him one sole alterna- 
tive, conquest, namely, or death. 

“ As we are here,” said ^ir Piercie Shafton, “ unac- 
companied by any patrons or seconds, it were well you 
should pass your hands over my side, as I shall over 
yours ; not that I suspect you to use any quaint device 
of privy armour, but in order to comply with the ancient 
and laudable custom practised on all such occasions.” 

While, complying with his antagonist’s humour. Halbert 
Glendinning went through this ceremony, Sir Piercie 
Shafton did not fail to solicit his attention to the quality 
and fineness of his wrought and embroidered shirt — “ In 
this very shirt,” said he, “ O mine Audacity ! — I say, 
in this very garment, in which I am ngw to combat a 
Scottish rustic like thyself, it was my envied lot to lead 
the winning party at that wondrous match at ballon, made 
betwixt the divine Astrophel, (our matchless Sidney,) 
and the right honourable my very good Lord of Oxford. 
All the beauties of Felicia (by which name I distinguish 
our beloved England) stood in the gallery, waving their 
kerchiefs at each turn of the game, and cheering the 
winners by their plaudits. After which noble sport we 
were refreshed by a suitable banquet, whereat it pleased 
the noble Urania (being the unmatched Countess of 
Pembroke) to accommodate me with her own fan, for 
the cooling my somewhat too much inflamed visage ; to 
requite which courtesy, I said, casting my features into a 
smiling yet melancholy fashion, O divinest Urania ! re- 
ceive again that too fatal gift, which not like the Zephyr 
cooleth, but, like the hot breath of the Sirocco, heateth 
yet more that which is already inflamed. Whereupon, 
'ooking upon me somewhat scornfully, yet not so but 


THE MOXASTERY. 


37 


what the experienced courtier might perceive a certain 
cast of approbative affection” 

Here the Knight was interrupted by Halbert, who had 
waited with courteous patience for some little time, till 
he found, that far from drawing to a close. Sir Piercie 
seemed rather inclined to wax prolix in his reminiscences. 

“ Sir Knight,” said the youth, “ if this matter be not 
very much to the purpose, we will, if you object not, 
proceed to that which we iiave in hand. You should 
have abidden in England had you desired to waste time 
in words, for here we spend it in blows.” 

“ I crave your pardon, most rusticated Audacity,” 
answered Sir Piercie ; “ truly I become oblivious of 
every thing beside, when the recollections of the divine 
court of Felicia press upon my weakened memory, even 
as a saint is dazzled when he bethinks him of the beatific 
vision. Ah felicitous Feliciana ! delicate nurse of the 
fair, chosen abode of the wise, the birth-place and cradle 
of nobility, the temple of courtesy, the fame of sprightly 
chivalry — Ah, heavenly court, or rather courtly heaven ! 
cheered with dances, lulled asleep with harmony, waken- 
ed with sprightly sports and tourneys, decored with silks 
and tissues, glittering with diamonds and jewels, standing 
on end with doubMd-piled velvets, satins, and satinettas !” 

“ The token. Sir Knight, the token !” exclaimed Hal- 
bert Glendinning, who, impatient of Sir Piercie’s inter- 
minable oratory, reminded him of the ground of their 
quarrel, as the best way to compel him to the purpose 
of their meeting. 

And he judged right ; for Sir Piercie Shafton no 
sooner heard him speak, than he exclaimed, “ Thy 
death-hour has struck — betake thee to thy sword — Via !” 

Both swords were unsheathed, and the combatants 
commenced their engagement. Halbert became immedi- 
ately aware, that, as he had expected, he was far inferior 
to his adversary in the use of his weapon. Sir Piercie 
Shafton had taken no more than his own share of real 
merit, when he termed himself an absolutely good fencer ; 

4 VOL. II. 


38 


THE MONASTERY. 


and Glendinning soon found thathe should have great diffi- 
culty in escaping with life and honour from such a mas- 
ter of the sword. The English knight was master of all 
the mystery of the stoccata, imhrocata.punto^reverso, in- 
cartata, and so forth, which the Italian masters of defence 
had lately introduced into general practice. But Glen- 
dinning. on his part, was no novice in the principles of 
the art, according to the old Scottish fashion, and pos- 
sessed the first of all qualities, a steady and collected 
mind. At first, being desirous to try the skill, and 
become acquainted with the play of his enemy, he stood 
on his defence, keeping his foot, hand, eye, and body,in 
perfect unison, and holding his sword short, and with the 
point towards his antagonist’s face, so that Sir Piercie, in 
order to assail him, was obliged to make actual passes, 
and could not avail himself of his skill in making feints ; 
while, on the other hand. Halbert was prompt to parry 
these attacks, either by shifting his ground, or with the 
sword. The consequence was, that after two or three 
sharp attempts on the part of Sir Piercie, which were 
evaded or disconcerted by the address of his opponent, 
he began to assume the defensive in his turn, fearful of 
giving some advantage by being repeatedly the assailant. 
But Halbert was too cautious to press on a swordsman 
whose dexterity had already more than once placed him 
within a hair’s breadth of death, which he had only 
escaped by uncommon watchfulness and agility. 

When each had made a feint or two, there was 
a pause in the conflict, both as if by one assent drop- 
ping their swords’ point, and looking on each other 
for a moment without speaking. At length Halber 
Glendinning, who felt perhaps more uneasy on accoun 
of his family than he had done before he had displayed 
his own courage, and proved the strength of his antago- 
nist, could not help saying, “ Is the subject of our quar- 
rel, Sir Knight, so mortal, that one of our tw’o bodies 
must needs fill up that grave ? — or may we with honour, 
having proved ourselves against each other, sheathe our 
swords and depart friends 


THE MOXASTERY. 


39 


“ Valiant and most rustical Audacity,” said the 'South- 
ron Knight, “ to no man on earth could you have put a 
question on the code of honour, who was more capable 
of rendering you a reason. Let us pause for the space 
ol one venue, until I give you my opinion on this de- 
pendence ;* for certain it is, that brave men should not 
run upon their fate like brute and furious wild beasts, 
but should slay each other deliberately, decently, and 
with reason. Therefore, if we coolly examine the state 
of our dependence, we may the better apprehend wheth- 
er the sisters three have doomed one of us to expiate the 
same with his blood — Dost thou understand me 

“ I have heard Father Eustace,” said Halbert,after 
a moment’s recollection, “ speak of the three furies, with 
their thread and their shears.” 

“ Enough — enough,” interrupted Sir Piercie Shafton, 
crimson with a new fit of rage, “ the thread of thy life 
is spun !” 

And with these words he attacked with the utmost 
ferocity the Scottish youth, who had but just time to 
throw himself into a posture of defence. But the rash 
fury of the assailant, as frequently happens, disappointed 
its own purpose ; for, as he made a desperate thrust. 
Halbert Glendinning avoided it, and ere the Knight 
could recover his weapon, requited him (to use his own 
language) with a resolute stoccata, which passed through 
his body, and Sir Piercie Shafton fell to the ground. 


* Depejidence — A phrase among the brethren of the sword for an existing 
quarrel. 


40 


THE MONASTERY. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Yes, life hath left him — every busy thought, 

Each fiery passion, every strong affection, 

All sense of outward ill and inward sorrow, 

Are fled at once from the pale trunk before me } 

And I have given that which spoke and moved. 

Thought, acted, suffered as a living man. 

To be a ghastly form of bloody clay. 

Soon the foul food for reptiles. 

Old Play. 

I BELIEVE few successful duellists (if the word success- 
ful can be applied to a superiority so fatal,) have beheld 
their dead antagonist stretched on the earth at their feet, 
without wishing they could redeem with their own blood 
that which it has been their fate to spill. Least of all 
could such indifference be the lot of so young a man as 
Halbert Glendinning, who, unused to the sight of human 
blood, was not only struck with sorrow, but with terror, 
when he beheld Sir Piercie Shafton lie stretched on the 
greensward before him, vomiting gore as if impelled by 
the strokes of a pump. He threw his bloody sword on 
the ground, and hastened to kneel down and support him, 
vainly striving, at the same time, to stanch his wound, 
which seemed rather to bleed inwardly than externally. 

The unfortunate Knight spoke at intervals, when the 
syncope would permit him, and his words, so far as in- 
telligible, partook of his affected and conceited, yet not 
ungenerous character. 

“ Most rustical youth,” he said, “ thy fortune hath 
prevailed over knightly skill — and Audacity hath over- 
come Condescension, even as the kite hath sometimes 
hawked at and struck down the falcon-gentle. — Fly and 
save thyself !- — Take my purse — it is in the nether pock- 
et of my carnation-coloured hose- — and is worth a clown’s 


THE MOJfASTERY- 


41 


acceptance. See that my mails, with my vestments, be 
sent to the Monastery of Saint Mary’s — (here his voice 
grew weak, and his mind and recollection seemed to 
waver) — I bestow the cut velvet jerkin, with close 
breeches conforming — for — oh ! — the good of my souf.” 

“ Be of good comfort, sir,” said Halbert, half dis- 
tracted with his agony of pity and remorse. “ I trust 
you shall yet do well — O for a leech !” 

“ Were there twenty physicians, O most generous 
Audacity, and that were a grave spectacle — I might not 
survive — my life is ebbing fast. — Commend me to the 
rustical nymph whom I called my Discretion — O Clari- 
diana ! — true empress of this bleeding heart — which now 
bleedeth in sad earnest ! — Place me on the ground at my 
length, most rustical victor, born to quench the pride of 
the burning light of the most felicitous court of Feliciana 
— O saints and angels — knights and ladies — masques and 
theatres — quaint devices — chain-work and broidery — 
love, honour, and beauty !” — 

While muttering these last words, which slid from him, 
as it were unawares, while doubtless he was recalling to 
mind the glories of the English court, the gallant Sir 
Piercie Shafton stretched out his limbs — groaned deeply, 
shut his eyes, and became motionless. 

The victor tore his hair for very sorrow, as he looked 
on the pale countenance of his victim. Life, he thought, 
had not utterly fled, but without better aid than his own, 
he saw not how it could be preserved. 

“ Why,” he exclaimed, in vain penitence, “ why did 
I provoke him to an issue so fatal ! Would to God I had 
submitted to the worst insult man could receive from 
man, rather than be the bloody instrument of this hloody 
deed — and doubly cursed be this evil-boding spot, which, 
haunted as I knew it to be by a witch or a devil, I yet 
chose for the place of combat ! In any other place, save 
this, there had been help to be gotten by speed of foot, 
or by uplifting of voice — but here there is no one to be 
found by search, no one to hear my shouts, save the evil 

4* VOL. 11. 


42 


THE MONASTERY. 


spirit who has counselled this mischief. It is not her 
hour — I will essay the spell howsoever ; and if she can 
give me aid, she shall do it, or know of what a madman 
is capable . even against those of another world !” 

He spurned his bloody shoe from his foot, and repeat- 
ed the spell with which the reader is well acquainted ; 
but there was neither voice, apparition, nor signal of an- 
swer. The youth, in the impatience of his despair, and 
with the rash hardihood which formed the basis of his 
character, shouted aloud “ Witch — Sorceress — Fiend ! 
— art thou deaf to my cries for help, and so ready to ap- 
pear and answer those of vengeance ^ Arise and speak 
to me, or I will choke up thy fountain, tear down thy 
holly-bush, and leave thy haunt as waste and bare, as 
thy fatal assistance has made me waste of comfort and 
bare of counsel !” — This furious and raving invocation 
was suddenly interrupted by a distant sound, resembling 
a hollo, from the gorge of the ravine. “ Now may 
Saint Mary be praised,’’ said the youth, hastily fastening 
his sandal, “ I hear the voice of some living man, who 
may give me counsel and help in this fearful extremity!” 

Having donned his sandal. Halbert Glendinning, hal- 
looing at intervals, in answer to the sound which he had 
heard, ran with the speed of a hunted buck down the 
rugged defile, as if paradise had been before him, hell 
and all her furies behind, and his eternal happiness oi 
misery had depended upon the speed which he exerted 
In a space incredibly short for any one but a Scottish 
mountaineer having his nerves strung by the deepest 
and most passionate interest, the youth reached the en- 
trance of the ravine, through which the rill that flows 
down Corrinan-shian discharges itself, and unites with the 
brook that waters the little valley of Glendearg. 

Here he paused, and looked around him upwards and 
downwards through the glen, without perceiving a human 
form. His heart sank within him. But the windings of 
the glen intercepted his prospect, and the person, whose 
voice he had heard, might, therefore, be at no great dis- 
tance, though not obvious to his sight. The branches of 


THE MONASTERY. 


43 


an oak-tree, which shot straight out from the face of a 
tall cliff, proffered to his bold spirit, steady head, and 
active limbs, the means of ascending it as a place of out- 
look, although the enterprize was what most men would 
have shrunk from. But by one bound from the earth, 
the active youth caught hold of the lower branch, and 
swung himself up into the tree, and in a minute more 
gained the top of the cliff, from which he could easily 
descry a human figure descending the valley. It was not 
that of a shepherd, or of a hunter, and scarcely any others 
used to traverse this deserted solitude, especially coming 
from the nor^th, since the reader may remember that the 
brook took its rise from an extensive and dangerous 
morass which lay in that direction. 

But Halbert Glendinning did not pause to consider 
who the traveller might be, or what might be the purpose 
of his journey. To know that he saw a human being, 
and might receive, in the extremity of his distress, the 
countenance and advice of a fellow-creature, was enough 
for him at the moment. He threw himself from the 
pinnacle of the cliff once more into the arms of the pro- 
jecting oak-tree, whose boughs waved in middle air, an- 
chored by the roots in a huge rift, or chasm of the rock. 
Catching at the branch which was nearest to him, he 
dropped himself from that height upon the ground ; and 
such was the athletic springiness of his youthful sinews, 
that he pitched there as lightly, and with as little injury, 
as the falcon stooping from her wheel. 

To resume his race at full speed up the glen, was the 
work of an instant ; and as he turned angle after angle 
of the indented banks of the valley, without meeting that 
which he sought, he became half afraid that the form 
which he had seen at such a distance had already melted 
into thin air, and was either a deception of his own im- 
agination, or of the elementary spirits by which the val- 
ley was supposed to be haunted. 

But, to his inexpressible joy, as he turned round the 
base of a huge and distinguished crag, he saw, straight 


44 


THE MONASTERY* 


before and very near to him, a person, whose dress, as 
he viewed it hastily, resembled that of a pilgrim. 

He was a man in advanced life, and wearing a long 
beard, having on his head a large slouched hat, without 
either band or brooch. His dress was a tunic of black 
serge, which, like those commonly called hussar-cloaks, 
had an upper part, which covered the arms and fell down 
on the lower ; a small scrip and bottle, which hung at 
his back, with a stout staff in his hand, completed his 
equipage. His step was feeble, like that of one exhaust- 
ed by a toilsome journey. 

“ Save ye, good father !” said the youth. “ God and 
Our Lady have sent you to my assistance !” 

‘‘ And in what, my son, can so frail a creature as 1 
am be of service to you said the old man, not a little 
surprised at being thus accosted by so handsome a youth, 
his features discomposed by anxiety, his face flushed wdth 
exertion, his hands and much of his dress stained with 
blood. 

‘‘ A man bleeds to death in the valley here, hard by. 
Come with me — come with me ! You are aged — you 
have experience — you have at least your senses — and 
mine have well nigh left me.” 

“ A man, and bleeding to death — and here in this 
desolate spot said the stranger. 

“ Stay not to question it, father,” said the youth, “ but 
come instantly to his rescue. Follow me — follow me, 
without an instant’s delay.” 

“ Nay, but my son,” said the old man, “ we do not 
lightly follow the guides who present themselves thus 
suddenly in the bosom of a howling wilderness. Ere I 
follow thee, thou must expound to me thy name, thy 
purpose, and the cause.” 

“ There is no time to expound any thing,” said Hal- 
bert ; “ I tell thee a man’s life is at stake, and thou must 
come to aid him, or I will carry thee thither by force !” 

“ Nay, thou shall not need,” said the traveller ; “ if it 
indeed be as thou sayest, I will follow thee of free-will — 
the rather that I am not wholly unskilled in leech-craft. 


THE MONASTERY. 


45 


and have in my scrip that which may do thy friend a 
service — Yet walk more slowly, I pray thee, for I am 
already well nigh forespent with travel.” 

With the indignant impatience of the fiery steed when 
compelled by his rider to keep pace with some slow 
drudge upon the highway. Halbert accompanied the way- 
farer, burning with anxiety which he endeavoured to 
subdue, that he might not alarm his companion, who was 
obviously afraid to trust him. When they reached the 
place where they were to turn off the wider glen into 
the Corri, the traveller made a doubtful pause as if un- 
willing to leave the broader path — “ Young man,” he 
said, “ if thou meanest aught but good to these grey 
hairs, thou wilt gain little by thy cruelty — I have no 
earthly treasure to tempt either rohber or murderer.” 

“ And I,” said the youth, “ am neither — and yet — 
God of Heaven ! I may be a murderer, unless your aid 
comes in time to this wounded wretch !” 

“ Is it even so said the traveller ; “ and do human 
passions disturb the breast of nature even in her deepest 
solitude ^ — Yet why should I marvel that where dark- 
ness abides the works of darkness should abound ? — By 
its fruits is the tree known. — Lead on, unhappy youth, I 
follow thee !” 

And with better will to the journey than he had evinc- 
ed hitherto, the stranger exerted himself to the uttermost, 
and seemed to forget bis own fatigue in his efforts to 
keep pace with his impatient guide. 

What was the surprise of Halbert Glendinning when, 
upon arriving at the fatal spot, he saw no appearance of 
the body of Sir Piercie Shafton ! The traces of the fray 
were otherwise sufficiently visible. The Knight’s cloak 
had indeed vanished as well as the body, but his doublet 
remained where he had laid it down, and the turf on 
which he had been stretched was stained with blood in 
many a dark crimson spot. 

As he gazed round him in terror and astonishment. 
Halbert’s eyes fell upon the place of sepulture which 
had so lately appeared to gape for a victim. It was no 


46 


THE MOIN^ASTERY. 


longer open, and it seemed that earth had received the 
expected tenant ; for the usual narrow hillock was piled 
over what had lately been an open grave, and the green 
sod was adjusted over all with the accuracy of an expe- 
rienced sexton. Halbert stood aghast. The idea rush- 
ed on his mind irresistibly, that the earth-heap before 
him inclosed what had lately been a living, moving, and 
sentient fellow-creature, whom, on little provocation, his 
fell act had reduced to a clod of the valley, as senseless 
and as cold as the turf under which he rested. The 
hand that scooped the grave had completed its work ; 
and whose hand could it be save that of the mysterious 
being of doubtful quality, whom his rashness had invoked, 
and whom he had suffered to intermingle in his destinies ? 

As he stood with clasped hands and uplifted eyes, 
bitterly rueing his rashness, he was roused by the voice 
of the stranger, whose suspicions of his guide had again 
been awakened by finding the scene so different frorg 
what Halbert had led him to expect — ‘‘ Young man,” 
he said, “ hast thou baited thy tongue with falsehood, to 
cut perhaps only a few days from the life of one whom 
Nature will soon call home, without guilt on thy part to 
hasten his journey ?” 

“ By the blessed Heaven ! — by Our dear Lady !” 
ejaculated Halbert 

“ Swear not at all !” said the stranger, interrupting 
him, “ neither by Heaven, for it is God’s throne — nor by 
earth, for it is his footstool — nor by the creatures whom 
he hath made, for they are but earth and clay as we are. 
Let thy yea be yea, and thy nay nay. Tell me in a 
word, why and for what purpose thou hast feigned a tale, 
to lead a bewildered traveller yet farther astray 

“ As I am a Christian man,” said Glendinning, “ I 
left him here bleeding to death — and now I nowhere spy 
him, and much I doubt that the tomb that thou seest hast 
closed on his mortal remains !” 

“ And who is he for whose fate thou art so anxious ?” 
said the stranger ; “ or how is it possible that this wound- 


THE MOXASTERY* 


47 


ed man could have been either removed from, or inter- 
red in, a place so solitary 

“ His name,” said Halbert, after a moment’s pause, 
“ is Piercie Shafton — there, on that very spot, 1 left him 
bleeding ; and what power has conveyed him hence, I 
know no more than thou dost.” 

“ Piercie Shafton ?” said the stranger, “ Sir Piercie 
Shafton of Wilverton, a kifisman, as it is said, of the great 
Piercie of Northumberland ? If thou hast slain him, to 
return to the territories of the proud Abbot is to give thy 
neck to the gallows. He is well known that Piercie 
Shafton ; the meddling tool of wiser plotters — a hair- 
brained trafficker in treason — a champion of the Pope, 
employed as a forlorn hope by those more politic heads, 
who have more will to work mischief than valour to en- 
counter danger. — Come with me, youth, and save thy- 
self from the evil consequences of this deed — guide me 
to the Castle of Avenel, and thy reward shall be protec- 
tion and safety.” 

Again Halbert paused, and summoned his mind to a 
hasty counsel. The vengeance with which the Abbot 
was likely to visit the slaughter of Shafton, his friend and 
in some measure his guest, was likely to be severe ; yet, 
in the various contingencies which he had considered 
previous to their duel, he had unaccountably omitted to 
reflect what was to be his line of conduct in case of Sir 
Piercie falling by his hand. If be returned to Glendearg, 
he was sure to draw on his whole family, including Mary 
Avenel, the resentment of the Abbot and community ; 
whereas it was possible that flight might make him be 
regarded as the sole author of the deed, and might avert 
the indignation of the Monks from the rest of the inhabi- 
tants of his paternal tower. Halbert recollected also the 
favour expressed for the household, and especially for 
Edward, by the Sub-Prior ; and he conceived that he 
could, by communicating his own guilt to that worthy 
ecclesiastic, when at a distance from Glendearg, secure 
his powerful interposition in favour of his family. These 
thoughts rapidly passed through his mind, and he deter- 


48 


THE MONASTERY. 


mined on flight. The Stranger’s company and his pro- 
mised protection came in aid of that resolution ; but he 
was unable to reconcile the invitation which the old man 
gave him to accompany him for safety to the Castle of 
Avenel, with the connexions of Julian, the present usurp- 
er of that inheritance. “ Good father,” he said, “ I 
fear that you mistake the man with whom you wish me 
to harbour. Avenel guided Pfercie Shafton into Scot- 
land, and his hench-nian, Christie of the Clint-hill, 
brought the southron hither.” 

“ Of that,” said the old man, ‘‘ I am well aware. 
Yet if thou wilt trust to me, as I have shown no reluc- 
tance to confide in thee, thou shaltfind with Julian Ave- 
nel welcome, or at least safety.” 

“ Father,” replied Halbert, “ though I can ill reconcile 
wdiat thou sayest with what Julian Avenel hath done, yet, 
caring little about the safety of a creature so lost as my- 
self, and as thy w’ords seem those of truth and honesty, 
and finally, as thou didst render thyself frankly up to my 
conduct, I will return the confidence thou hast showm, and 
accompany thee to the Castle of Avenel by a road which 
thou thyself couldst never have discovered.” He led 
the way, and the old man followed for some time in 
silence. 


CHAPTER V. 


^Tis when the wound is stiffening with the cold, 

The w'arrior first feels pain — His when the heat 
And fiery fever of his soul is passed, 

The sinner feels remorse. 

Old Play. 

The feelings of compunction with which Halbert Glen- 
dinning was visited upon this painful occasion, were 
deeper than belonged to an age and country in w hich hu- 


THE MONASTERY. 


49 


man life was held so cheap. They fell far short certain- 
ly of those which might have afflicted a mind regulated 
by better religious precepts, and more strictly trained 
under social laws ; but still they were deep and severely 
felt, and divided in Halbert’s heart even the regret with 
which he parted from Mary Avenel and the tower of his 
fathers. 

The old traveller walked silently by his side for some 
time, and then addressed him. — “ My son, it has been 
said that sorrow must speak or die — Why art thou so 
much cast down ? — Tell me thy unhappy tale, and it may 
be that my grey head may devise counsel and aid for 
your young life.” 

“ Alas !” said Halbert Glendinning, ‘‘ can you wonder 
why I am cast down ? — I am at this instant a fugitive from 
my father’s house, from my mother and from my friends, 
and I bear on my head the blood of a man who injured 
me but in idle words, which T have thus bloodily requited. 
My heart now tells me I have done evil — it were harder 
than these rocks if it could bear unmoved the thought, 
that I have sent this man to a long account, unhouseled 
and unshrived !” 

“ Pause there, my son,” said the traveller. “ That 
thou hast defaced God’s image in thy neighbour’s person 
— that thou hast sent dust to dust in idle wrath or idler 
pride, is indeed a sin of the deepest dye — that thou hast 
cut short the space which Heaven might have allowed 
him for repentance, makes it yet more deadly — but for 
all this there is balm in Gilead.” 

“ I understand you not, father,” said Halbert, struck 
by the solemn tone which was assumed by his companion. 

The old man proceeded. “ Thou hast slain thine 
enemy — it was a cruel deed : thou hast cut him off per- 
chance in his sins — it is a fearful aggravation. Do yet, 
by my counsel, and in lieu of him whom thou hast per- 
chance consigned to the kingdom of Satan, let thine efforts 
wrest another subject from the reign of the Evil One.” 

5 VOL. II. 


60 


THE MO.\ASTERY. 


“ I understand you, father,” said Halbert ; ‘‘ thou 
wouldst have me atone for my rashness by doing service 
to the soul of my adversary — But how may this be f I 
have no money to purchase masses, and gladly would I 
go barefoot to the Holy Land to free his spirit from Pur- 
gatory, only that” 

“ My son,” said the old man, interrupting him, ‘‘ the 
sinner for whose redemption I entreat you to labour, is 
not the dead but the living. It is not for the soul of 
thine enemy I would exhort thee to pray — that has al- 
ready had its final doom from a Judge as merciful as he 
is just j nor, wert thou to coin that rock into ducats, and 
obtain a mass for each one, would it avail the departed 
spirit. Where the tree hath fallen it must lie. But the 
sapling, which hath in it yet the vigour and juice of life, 
may be bended to the point to which it ought to incline.” 

“ Art thou a priest, father?” said the young man, “ or 
by what commission dost thou talk of such high matters.^” 

“ By that of my Almighty Master,” said the traveller, 
“ under whose banner I am an enlisted soldier.” 

Halbert’s acquaintance with religious matters was no 
deeper than could be derived from the Archbishop of 
St. Andrews’ Catechism, and the pamphlet called the 
Twa-pennie Faith, both which w^ere industriously circu- 
lated and recommended by the Monks of St. Mary’s. 
Yet, however indiflerent and superficial a theologian, he 
began to suspect that he was now in company with one 
of the gospellers, or heretics, before whose influence the 
ancient system of religion now tottered to the very foun- 
dation. Bred up, as may well be presumed, in a holy 
horror against these formidable sectaries, the youth’s first 
feelings were those of a loyal and devoted church vas- 
sal. “ Old man,” he said, “ wert thou able to make 
good with thy hand the words that thy tongue hath spoken 
against our Holy Mother Church, we should have tried, 
upon this moor, which of our creeds hath the better 
champion.” 

“Nay,” said the stranger, “if thou art a true soldier 
of Rome, thou wilt not pause from thy purpose because 


THE MOXASTERY. 


51 


thou hast the odds of years and of strength on thy side. 
Hearken to me, my son. J have showed thee how to 
make thy peace with heaven, and thou hast rejected my 
proffer. I will now show thee how thou shall make thy 
reconciliation with the powers of this world. Take this 
grey head from the frail body which supports it, and carry 
it to the chair of proud Abbot Boniface ; and when thou 
tellest him thou hast slain Piercie Shafton, and his ire 
rises at the deed, lay the head of Henry Warden at his 
foot, and thou shalt have praise instead of censure.” 

Halbert Glendinning stepped back in surprise. “ What ! 
are you that Henry Warden so famous among the here- 
tics, that even Knox’s name is scarce more frequently 
in their mouths ? Art thou he, and darest thou to ap- 
proach the Halidome of St. Mary’s 

“ I am Henry Warden, of a surety,” said the old man, 
“ far unworthy to be named in the same breath with 
Knox, but yet willing to venture on whatever dangers my 
Master’s service may call me to.” 

“ Hearken to me, then,” said Halbert ; “ to slay thee 
I have no heart — to make thee prisoner were equally to 
bring ihy blood on my head — to leave thee in this wild, 
without a guide, were little better. I will conduct thee, 
as I promised, in safety to the Castle of Avenel ; but 
breathe not, while we are on the journey, a word against 
the doctrines of the holy church of which I am an un- 
worthy — but, though an ignorant, a zealous member. — 
When thou art there arrived, beware of thyself — there is 
a high price upon thy head, and Julian Avenel loves the 
glance of gold bonnet-pieces.”* 

“ Yet thou sayest not,” answered the Protestant preach- 
er, for such he was, “ that for lucre he would sell the 
blood of his guest ?” 

“ Not if thou comest an invited stranger, relying on bis 
faith,” said the youth ; “ evil as Julian may be, he dare 
not break the rights of hospitality ; for, loose as we on these 


* A j^old coin of James V., the most beautiful of the S'cottish series 5 so 
{ ailed because the effigies of the sovereign is represented wearing a bonnet. 


52 


THE MONASTERY. 


marches may be in all other ties, these are respected 
amongst us even to idolatry, and his nearest relations would 
think it incumbent on them to spill his blood themselves, to 
efface the disgrace such treason would bring upon their 
name and lineage. But if thou goest self-invited, and with- 
out assurance of safety, I promise thee thy risk is great.” 

1 am in God’s hand,” answered the preacher ; “ it 
is on His errand that 1 traverse these wilds amidst dan- 
gers of every kind ; while I am useful for my Master’s 
service they shall not prevail against me, and when, like 
the barren fig-tree, 1 can no longer produce fruit, what 
imports it when or by whom the axe is laid to the root 

“ Your courage and devotion,” said Glendinning, “ are 
worthy of a better cause.” 

“ That,” said Warden, “ cannot be — mine is the very 
best.” 

They continued their journey in silence. Halbert Glen- 
dinning tracing with the utmost accuracy the mazes of 
the dangerous and intricate morasses and hills which di- 
vided the Halidome from the barony of Avenel. From 
time to time he was obliged to stop, in order to assist his 
companion to cross the black intervals of quaking bog, 
called in the Scottish dialect hags, by which the firmer 
parts of the morass were intersected. 

“ Courage, old man,” said Halbert, as he saw his com- 
panion almost exhausted with fatigue, “ we shall soon 
be upon hard ground. And yet soft as this moss is, I 
have seen the merry falconers go through it as light as 
deer when the quarry was upon the flight.” 

“True, my son,” answered Warden, “for so I will 
still call you, though you term me no longer father ; and 
even so doth headlong youth pursue its pleasures, with- 
out regard to the mire and the peril of the paths through 
which they are hurried.” 

“ I have already told thee,” answered Halbert Glen- 
dinning, sternly, “ that 1 will hear nothing from thee that 
savours of doctrine,” 


THE MONASTERY. 


53 * 


“ Nay, but, my son,” answered Warden, thy spirit- 
ual father himself would surely not dispute the truth of 
what 1 have now spoken for your edification f” 

Glendinning stoutly replied, “ 1 know not how that 
may be — but I wot well it is the fashion of your broth- 
erhood to bait your hook with fair discourse, and to hold 
yourselves up as angels of light, that you may the better 
extend the kingdom of darkness.” 

“ May God,” replied the preacher, “ pardon those 
who have thus reported of his servants ! I will not offend 
thee, my son, by being instant out of season — thou speak- 
est but as thou art taught — yet sure I trust that so good- 
ly a youth will be still rescued, like a brand from the 
burning.” 

While he thus spoke, the verge of the morass was 
attained, and their path lay on the declivity. Green- 
sward it was, and viewed from a distance, chequered 
,with its narrow and verdant line the dark-brown heath 
which it traversed, though the distinction was not so 
easily traced when they were walking on it.^ T'he old 
man pursued his journey with comparative ease, and 
unwilling again to awaken the jealous zeal of his young 
companion for the Roman faith, he discoursed on other 
matters. The tone of his conversation was still grave, 
moral, and instructive. He had travelled much, and 
knew both the language and manners of other countries, 
concerning which Halbert Glendinning, already antici- 
pating the possibility of being obliged to quit Scotland for 
the deed he had done, was naturally and anxiously desir- 
ous of information. By degrees he was more attracted 
by the charms of the stranger’s conversation than 
repelled by the dread of his dangerous character as 
a heretic, and Halbert had called him father more than 
once ere the turrets of Avenel Castle came in view. 

The situation of this ancient fortress was remarkable. 
It occupied a small rocky islet in a mountain lake, or 
tarn, as such a piece of water is called in Westmoreland. 
The lake might be about a mile in circumference, sur- 
5* VOL. 11. 


54 


THE MONASTERY* 


rounded by hills of considerable height, which, except 
where old trees and brush-wood occupied the ravines that 
divided them from each other, were bare and heathy. 
The surprise of the spectator was chiefly excited by find- 
ing a piece of water situated in that high and mountain- 
ous region, and the landscape around had features which 
might rather be termed wild, than either romantic or sub- 
lime ; yet the scene was not without its charms. Under 
the burning sun of summer, the clear azure of the deep 
unrufiled lake refreshed the eye, and impressed the mind 
with a pleasing feeling of deep solitude. In winter, when 
the snow lay on the mountains around, these dazzling 
masses appeared to ascend far beyond their wonted and 
natural height, while the lake, which stretched beneath, 
and filled their bosom with all its frozen waves, lay like 
the surface of a darkened and broken mirror around 
the black and rocky islet, and the walls of the grey castle 
with which it was crowned. 

As the castle occupied, either with its principal build- 
ings, or with its flanking and outward walls, every project- 
ing point of rock, which served as its site, it seemed as 
completely surrounded by water as the nest of a wild swan, 
save where a narrow causeway extended betwixt the islet 
and the shore. But the fortress was larger in appearance 
than in reality ; and of the buildings which it actually 
contained, many had become ruinous and uninhabitable. 
In the times of the grandeur of the Avenel family, these 
had been occupied by a considerable garrison of follow- 
ers and retainers, but they were now in a great measure 
deserted ; and Julian Avenel would probably have fixed 
his habitation in a residence better suited to his diminish- 
ed fortunes, had it not been for the great security which 
the situation of the old castle afforded to a man of his 
precarious and perilous mode of life. Indeed, in this 
respect, the spot could scarce have been more happily 
chosen, for it could be rendered almost completel} in- 
accessible at the pleasure of the inhabitant. The dis- 
tance betwixt the nearest shore and the islet was not in- 
deed above an hundred yards ; but then the causeway 


THE MONASTERY. 


65 


which connected them was extremely narrow, and com- 
pletely divided by two cuts, one in the midway between 
the islet and shore, and another close under the outward 
gate of the castle. These formed a formidable, and al- 
most insurmountable interruption to any hostile approach. 
Each was defended by a draw-bridge, one of which, 
being that nearest to the castle, was regularly raised at 
all times during the day, and both were lifted at night.^ 
The situation of Julian Avenel, engaged in a variety of 
feuds, and a party to almost every dark and mysterious 
transaction which was on foot in that wild and military 
frontier, required all these precautions for his security. 
His own ambiguous and doubtful course of policy had 
increased these dangers ; for as he made professions to 
both parties in the state, and occasionally united more 
actively with either the one or the other, as chanced best 
to serve his immediate purpose, he could not be said to 
have either firm allies and protectors, or determined 
enemies. His life was a life of expedients and of peril ; 
and while, in pursuit of his interest, he made all the 
doubles which he thought necessary to attain his object, 
he often over-ran his prey, and missed that which he 
might have gained by observing a straighter course. 


CHAPTER VI. 

I’ll walk on tiptoe arm my eye with caution, 

My heart with courage, and my hand with weapon, 

Like him who ventures on a lion’s den. 

Old Play. 

When, issuing from the gorge of a pass which termi- 
nated upon the lake, the travellers came in sight of the 
ancient castle of Avenel, the old man paused, and resting 
upon his pilgrim’s staff, looked with earnest attention 


56 


THE MOJfASTERT* 


upon the scene before him. The castle was, as we have 
said, in many places ruinous, as was evident, even at this 
distance, by the broken, rugged, and irregular outline of 
the walls and of the towers. In others it seemed more 
entire, and a pillar of dark smoke, which ascended from 
the chimneys of the donjon, and spread its long dusky 
pennon through the clear ether, indicated that it was 
inhabited. But no corn-fields or inclosed pasture- 
grounds on the side of the lake showed that provident 
attention to comfort and subsistence which usually ap- 
peared near the houses of the greater, and even of the 
lesser barons. There were no cottages with their patches 
of in-field, and their crofts and gardens, surrounded by 
rows of massive sycamores ; no church with its simple 
tower in the valley ; no herds of sheep among the hills ; 
no cattle on the lower ground ; nothing which intimated 
the occasional prosecution of the arts of peace and of 
industry. It was plain that the inhabitants, whether few 
or numerous, must be considered as the garrison of the 
castle, living within its defended precincts, and subsisting 
by means which were other than peaceful. 

Probably it was with this conviction that the old man, 
gazing on the castle, muttered to himself, “ Lapis offen- 
sionis et petra scandali and then turning to Halbert 
Glendinning, he added, “ VVe may say of yonder fort as 
King James did of another fastness in this province, that 
he who built it-was a thief in his heart. 

“ But it was not so,” answered Glendinning ; “ yonder 
castle was built by the old lords of Avenel, men as much 
beloved in peace as they were respected in war. They 
were the bulwark of the frontiers against foreigners, and 
the protectors of the natives from domestic oppression. 
The present usurper of their inheritance no more resem- 
bles them than the night-prowling owl resembles a falcon, 
because she builds on the same rock.” 

“ This Julian Avenel, then, holds no high place in the 
love and regard of his neighbours ?” said Warden. 

“ So little,” answered Halbert, “ that besides the 
jack-men and riders with whom he has associated him- 


THE MONASTERY* 


67 


self, and of whom he has many at his disposal, I know 
of few who voluntarily associate with him. He has been 
more than once outlawed both by England and Scotland, 
his lands declared forfeited, and his head set at a price. 
But in these unquiet times, a man so daring as Julian 
Avenel has ever found some friends willing to protect him 
against the penalties of the law, on condition of his 
secret services.” 

“ You describe a dangerous man,” replied Warden. 

“ You may have experience of that,” replied the 
youth, “ if you deal not the more warily ; — though it 
may be that he also has forsaken the communion of the 
church, and gone astray in the path of heresy.” 

“ What your blindness terms the path of heresy,” 
answered the reformer, “ is indeed the straight and nar- 
row way, wherein he who walks turns not aside, whether 
for worldly wealth or for worldly passions. Would to 
God this man were moved by no other and no worse 
spirit than that which prompts my poor endeavours to 
extend the kingdom of Heaven ! This Baron of Avenel 
is personally unknown to me, is not of our congregation 
or of our counsel ; yet I bear to him charges touching my 
safety, from those whom he must fear if he does not re- 
spect them, and upon that assurance I will venture upon 
his hold — I am now sufficiently refreshed by these few 
minutes of repose.” 

Take then this advice for your safety,” said Halbert, 
“ and believe that it is founded upon the usage of this 
country and its inhabitants. If you can better shift for 
yourself, go not to the castle of Avenel — if you do risk 
going thither, obtain from him, if possible, his safe-con- 
duct, and beware that he swears it by the Black Rood — 
And lastly, observe whether he eats with you at the 
board, or pledges you in the cup ; for if he gives you not 
these signs of welcome, his thoughts are evil towards 
you.” 

“ Alas !” said the preacher, “ I have no better earthly 
refuge for the present than these frowning towers, but I go 
thither trusting to aid which is not of this earth — But 


58 


THE MONASTERY. 


thou, good youth, needest thou trust thyself in this dan- 
gerous den r”’ 

‘‘I,” answered Halbert, “ am in no danger. I am well 
known to Christie of the Clint-hill, the henchman of this 
Julian Avenel ; and, what is a yet better protection, I have 
nothing either to provoke malice or to tempt plunder.” 

The tramp of a steed, which clattered along the shingly 
banks of the loch, was now heard behind them ; and, 
when they looked back a rider was visible, his steel cap 
and the point of his long lance glancing in the setting sun, 
as he rode rapidly towards them. 

Halbert Glendinning soon recognized Christie of the 
Clint-hill, and made his companion aware that the 
henchman of Julian Avenel was approaching. 

‘‘ Ha, youngling !” said Christie to Halbert, as he 
came up to them, “ thou hast made good my word at 
last, and come to take service with my noble master, hast 
thou not ? Thou shalt find me a good friend and a true ; 
and ere Saint Barnaby come round again, thou shalt know 
every pass betwixt Milburn Plain and Netherby, as if 
thou hadst been born with a jack on thy back, and a 
lance in thy hand. — What old carle hast thou with thee ? 
— He is not of the brotherhood of Saint Mary’s — at least 
he has not the buist* of these black cattle.” 

“ He is a way-faring man,” said Halbert, “ who has 
concerns with Julian of Avenel. For myself, I intend to 
go to Edinburgh to see the court and the Queen, and 
when I return hither we will talk of your proffer. Mean- 
time, as thou hast often invited me to the castle, I crave 
hospitality there to-night for myself and my companion.” 

“ For thyself and welcome, young comrade,” replied 
Christie ; “ but we harbour no pilgrims, nor aught that 
looks like a pilgrim.” 

“ So please you,” said Warden, “ I have letters of 
commendation to thy master from a sure friend, whom 
he will right willingly oblige in higher matters than in. 
affording me a brief protection — And I am no pilgrim. 


B2iist — The brand or mark set upon sheep or cattle by their owners. 


THE MONASTERY. 


59 


but renounce the same, with all its superstitious observ- 
ances.” 

He offered his letters to the horseman, who shook his 
head. 

“ These,” he said, are matters for my master, and 
it will be well if he can read them himself ; for me, 
sword and lance are my book and psalter, and have been 
since I was twelve years old. But I will guide you to the 
castle, and the Baron of Avenel will himself judge of 
your errand.” 

By this time the party had reached the causeway, along 
which Christie advanced at a trot, intimating his pres- 
ence to the warders within the castle by a shrill and pe- 
culiar whistle. At this signal the farther draw-bridge 
was lowered. The horseman passed it and disappeared 
under the gloomy portal which was beyond it. 

Glendinning and his companion advancing more leis- 
urely along the rugged causeway, stood at length under 
the same gate-way, over which frowned, in dark red 
free-stone, the ancient armorial bearings of the house of 
Avenel, which represented a female figure shrouded and 
muffled, which occupied the whole field. The cause of 
their assuming so singular a device was uncertain, but 
the figure was generally supposed to represent the myste- 
rious being called the White Lady of Avenel.* The 
sight of this mouldering shield awakened in the mind of 
Halbert the strange circumstances which had connected 
his fate with that of Mary Avenel, and with the doings of 
the spiritual being who was attached to her house, and 
whom he saw here represented in stone, as he had be- 
fore seen her effigy upon the seal ring of Walter Avenel, 
which, with other trinkets formerly mentioned, had been 
saved from pillage, and brought to Glendearg, when 
Mary’s mother was driven from her habitation. 

“ You sigh, my son,” said the old man, observing the 


* There is an ancient Enelisli family, I believe, which bears, or did bear a 
ehost or spirit passant sable in a field argent. This seems tc have been a 
device of a punning or canting herald. 


(50 


THE MONASTERY. 


impression made on his youthful companion’s counte- 
nance, but mistaking the cause ; “ if you fear to enter, 
we may yet return.” 

“ That can younot,” said Christie of the Clint-hill, who 
emerged at that instant from the side-door under the 
arch-way. “ Look yonder, and choose whetlier you 
will return skimming the water like a wild-duck, or 
winging the air like a plover.” 

They looked, and saw that the draw-bridge which they 
had just crossed was again raised, and now interposed 
its planks betwixt the setting sun and the portal of the 
castle, deepening the gloom of the arch under which they 
stood. Christie laughed and bid them follow him, say- 
ing, by way of encouragement, in Halbert’s ear, “ An- 
swer boldly and readily to whatever the Baron asks you. 
Never stop to pick your words, and above all show no 
fear of him — the devil is not so black as he is painted.” 

As he spoke thus, he introduced them into the large 
stone hall, at the upper end of which blazed a huge fire 
of wood. The long oaken table, which as usual occu- 
pied the midst of the apartment, was covered with rude 
preparations for the evening meal of the Baron and his 
chief domestics, five or six of whom, strong athletic sav- 
age-looking men, paced up and down the lower end of the 
hall, which rang to the jarring clang of their long swords 
that clashed as they moved, and to the heavy tramp of 
their high-heeled jack-boots. Iron jacks, or coats of 
buff, formed the principal part of their dress, and steel- 
bonnets, or large slouched hats with Spanish plumes 
drooping backwards, were their head attire. 

The Baron of Avenel w^as one of those tall muscular 
martial figures which are the favourite subjects of Salva- 
tor Rosa. He wore a cloak which had been once gaily 
trimmed, but which, by long wear and frequent exposure 
to the weather, was now faded in its colours. Throwm 
negligently about his tall person, it partly hid and partly 
showed a short doublet of buff, under which w’as in 
some places visible that light shirt of mail which was 
called a secret^ because worn instead of more ostensible 


THE MONASTERY. 


61 


armour, to protect against private assassination. A 
leathern belt sustained a large and heavy sword on 
one side, and on the other that gay poniard which had 
once called Sir Piercie Shafton master, of which the 
hatchments and gildings were already much defaced, 
either by rough usage or neglect. 

Notwithstanding the rudeness of his apparel, Julian 
Avenel’s manner and countenance had far more elevation 
than those of the attendants who surrounded him. He 
might be fifty or upwards, for his dark hair was mingled 
with grey, but age had neither tamed the fire of his eye 
nor the enterprize of his disposition. His countenance 
had been handsome, for beauty was an attribute of the 
family ; but the lines were roughened by fatigue and 
exposure to the weather, and rendered coarse by the ha- 
bitual indulgence of violent passions. 

He seemed in deep and moody reflection, and was 
pacing at a distance from his dependants along the upper 
end of the hall, sometimes stopping from time to time to 
caress and feed a gosshawk, which sat upon his wrist, 
with its jesses (i. e. the leathern straps fixed to its legs) 
WTapt around his hand. The bird, which seemed not 
insensible to its master’s intention, answered his caresses 
by ruffling forward its feathers, and pecking playfully at 
his finger. At such intervals the Baron smiled, but in- 
stantly resumed the darksome air of sullen meditation. 
He did not even deign to look upon an object, which 
few could have passed and repassed so often without be- 
stowing on it a transient glance. 

This was a woman of exceeding beauty, rather gaily 
than richly attired, who sat on a low seat close by the 
huge hall chimney. The gold chains round her neck and 
arms, — the gay gown of green which swept the floor, — 
the silver-embroidered girdle, with its bunch of keys, de- 
pending in housewifely pride by a silver chain, — the 
yellow silken couvrechef (Scottice, cwrcA) which was dis- 
posed around her head, and partly concealed her dark 
profusion of hair, — above all, the circumstances so deli- 
6 VOL. II. 


62 


THE MONASTERY. 


cately touched in the old ballad, that the girdle was too 
short,” the “gown of green all too strait,” for the wearer’s 
present shape, would have intimated the Baron’s Lady. 
But then the lowly seat, — the expression of deep mel- 
ancholy, which was changed into a timid smile, whenever 
she saw the least chance of catching the eye of Julian 
Avenel, — the subdued look of grief, and the starting tear 
for which that constrained smile was again exchanged, 
when she saw herself entirely disregarded, — these were 
not the attributes of a wife, or they were those of a de- 
jected and afflicted female, who had yielded her love on 
less than legitimate terms. 

Julian Avenel, as we have said, continued to pace the 
hall without paying any of that minute attention which is 
rendered to almost every female either by affection or 
courtesy. He seemed totally unconscious of her pres- 
ence, or of that of his attendants, and was only rous- 
ed from his own dark reflections by the notice he paid 
to the falcon, to which, however, the lady seemed to 
attend, as if studying to find either an opportunity of 
speaking to the Baron, or of finding something enigmat- 
ical in the expressions which he used to the bird. All 
this the strangers had time enough to remark ; for no 
sooner had they entered the apartment than their usher, 
Christie of the Clint-hill, after exchanging a significant 
glance with the menials or troopers at the lower end of 
the apartment, signed to Halbert Glendinning and to his 
companion to stand still near the door, while he him.self, 
advancing nearer the table, placed himself in such a sit- 
uation as to catch the Baron’s observation when he 
should be disposed to look around, but without presiim 
ing to intrude himself on his master’s notice. Indeed 
the look of this man, naturally bold, hardy, and auda- 
cious, seemed totally changed when he was in presence 
of his lord, and resembled the dejected and cowering 
manner of a quarrelsome dog when rebuked by his 
owner, or when he finds himself obliged to deprecate the 
violence of a superior adversary of his own species. 

In spite of the novelty of his own situation, and every 
painful feeling connected with it. Halbert felt his curios 


THE MONASTERY. 


63 


ity interested in the female, who sat by the chimney, un- 
noticed and unregarded. He marked with what keen 
and trembling solicitude she watched the broken words 
of Julian, and how her glance stole towards him, ready 
to be averted upon the slightest chance of his perceiving 
himself to be watched. 

Meantime he went on with his dalliance with his feath- 
ered favourite, now giving, now withholding, the morsel 
with which he was about to feed the bird, and so exciting 
its appetite and gratifying it, by turns. “ What! more 
yet ? — thou foul kite, thou wouldst never have done — 
give thee part, thou wilt have all — Ay, prune thy feath- 
ers, and prink thyself gay — much thou wilt make of it 
now — dost think I know thee not ? — dost think I see not 
that all that ruffling and pluming of wing and feathers is 
not for thy master, but to try what thou canst make of 
him, thou greedy gled — well — there — take it then, and 
rejoice thyself — little boon goes far with thee, and with 
all thy sex — and so it should.” 

He ceased to look on the bird, and again traversed the 
apartment. Then taking another small piece of raw meat . 
from the trencher, on which it was placed ready cut for 
his use, he began once again to tempt and teaze the bird, 
by offering and withdrawing it, until he awakened its 
wild and bold disposition. “ Wiiat ! struggling, flutter- 
ing, aiming at me with beak and single ?* So la ! So la ! 
wouldst mount ? wouldst fly ? the jesses are round thy 
clutches, fool — thou canst neither stir nor soar, but by 
my will — Beware thou come to reclaim, wench, else I 
wdll wring thy head off one of these days — Well, have 
it then, and well fare thou with it. — So ho, Jenkin !” 
One of the attendants stepped forward — “ Take the foul 
gled hence to the mew — or, stay ; leave her, but look well 
to her casting and to her bathing — we will see her fly 
to-morrow. — How now, Christie, so soon returned ?” 


* In the kindly tankage of hawking, as lady Juliana Berners terms it, hawks' 
talons are called their singles 


64 


THE MONASTERY. 


Christie advanced to his master, and gave an account 
of himself and his journey, in the way in which a police- 
officer holds communication with his magistrate, that is, 
as much by signs as by words. 

“ Noble sir,’’ said that worthy satellite, “ the Laird 

of ,” he named no place, but pointed with his finger 

in a south-western direction, — “ may not ride with you 
the day he purposed, because the Lord Warden has 
threatened that he will ” 

Here another blank, intelligibly enough made up by the 
speaker touching his own neck with his left fore-finger, 
and leaning his head a little to one side. 

“ Cowardly caitiff !” said Julian ; “ by Heaven ! the 
whole world turns sheer naught — it is not worth a brave 
man’s living in — ye may ride a day and night, and never 
see a feather wave or hear a horse prance— =-the spirit of 
our fathers is dead amongst us — the very brutes are de- 
generated — the cattle we bring home at our life’s risk are 
mere carrion — our hawks are riflers* — our hounds are 
turnspits and trindle-tails — our men are women — and 
our women are — ” 

He looked at the female for the first time, and stopped 
short in the midst of what he was about to say, though 
there was something so contemptuous in the glance, that 
the blank might have been thus filled up — “ Our Women 
are such as she is.” 

He said it not however ; and, as if desirous of at- 
tracting his attention at all risks, and in whatever man- 
ner, she rose and came forward to him, but with a tim- 
orousness ill-disguised by affected gaiety. — “ Our women, 
Julian — what would you say of the women ?” 

“ Nothing,” answered Julian Avenel, “ at least noth- 
ing but that they are kind-hearted wenches like thyself, 
Kate.” The female coloured deeply, and returned to 
her seat. — “ And what strangers hast thou brought with 
thee, Christie, that stand yonder like two stone statues ?” 
said the Baron. 


* So termed when they only caught their prey by the feathers. 


THE MONASTERY. 


65 


‘‘ The taller,” answered Christie, ‘‘ is, so please you, a 
young fellow called Halbert Glendinning, the eldest son 
of the old widow at Glendearg.” 

“ What brings him here ?” said the Baron ; “ hath 
he any message from Mary Avenel 

“ Not as 1 think,” said Christie ; “ the youth is 
roving the country — he was always a wild slip, for I have 
known him since he was the height of my sword.” 

“ What qualities hath he said the Baron. 

“ All manner of qualities,” answered his follower — 
“ he can strike a buck, track a deer, fly a hawk, halloo 
to a hound — he shoots in the long and cross-bow to a 
hair’s-breadth — wields a lance or a sword like myself 
nearly — backs a horse manfully and fairly — I wot not 
what more a man need to do to make him a gallant com- 
panion.” 

“ And who,” said the Baron, “ is the old miser^who 
stands beside him .?” 

“ Some cast of a priest as I fancy — he says he is 
charged with letters to you.” 

“ Bid them come forward,” said the Baron; and no 
sooner had they approached him more nearly, than, 
struck by tbe fine form and strength displayed by Halbert 
Glendinning, he addressed him thus : “ 1 am told, 

young swankie, that you are roaming the world to seek 
your fortune — if you will serve Julian Avenel, you may 
find it without going farther.” 

“ So please you,” answered Glendinning, “ something 
has chanced to me that makes it better I should leave 
this land, and I am bound for Edinburgh.” 

“ What ! thou hast stricken some of the king’s deer, 
I warrant — or lightened the meadows of St. Mary’s of 
some of their beeves — or thou hast taken a moonlight 
leap over the Border 

“ No, sir,” said Halbert, ‘‘ my case is entirely different.” 

Then I warrant thee,” said the Baron, “ thou hast 
stabbed some brother churl in a fray about a wench — chou 
art a likely lad to wrangle in such a cause.” 

6* VOL. II. 


66 


THE MONASTERY. 


Ineffably disgusted at his tone and manner, Halbert 
Glendinning remained silent while the thought darted 
across his mind, what would Julian Avenel have said, 
had he known the quarrel, of which he spoke so lightly, 
had arisen on account of his own brother’s daughter! — 
‘‘ But be thy cause of flight what it will,” said Julian, in 
continuation, “ dost thou think the law or its emissaries 
can follow thee into this island, or arrest thee under the 
standard of Avenel ? — Look at the depth of the lake, 
the strength of the walls, the length of the causeway — 
look at my men, and think if they are likely to see a com- 
rade injured, or if I, their master, am a man to desert a 
faithful follower, in good or evil. 1 tell thee, it shall be 
an eternal day of truce betwixt thee and justice, as they 
call it, from the instant thou hast put my colours into thy 
cap— thou shall ride by the Warden’s nose as thou 
wouldst pass an old market-woman, and ne’er a cur which 
follows him shall dare to bay at thee !” 

“ I thank you for your offers, noble sir,” replied 
Halbert, “ but I must answer in brief, that I cannot 
profit by them — my fortunes lead me elsewhere.” 

“ Thou art a self-willed fool for thy pains,” said Juli- 
an, turning from him ; and signing Christie to approach, 
he whispered in his ear, “ There is promise in that 
young fellow’s looks, Christie, and we want men of limbs 
and sinews so compacted — those thou hast brought to 
me of late are the mere refuse of mankind, wretches 
scarce worth the arrow that ends them : this youngster is 
limbed like St. George. Ply him with wine and wassail 
— let the wenches weave their meshes about him like 
spiders — thou understandest F” Christie gave a sagacious 
nod of intelligence, and fell back to a respectful distance 
from his master. — “ And thou, old man,” said the Baron, 
turning to the elder traveller, “ hast thou been roaming 
the world after fortune too — it seems not she has fallen 
into thy way.” 

“ So please you,” replied Warden, “ I were perhaps 
more to be pitied than I am now, had 1 indeed met with 


THE MOJTASTERY. 


67 


that fortune, which, like others, I have sought in my 
greener days.” 

“ Nay, understand me, friend,” said the Baron ; “ if 
thou art satisfied with thy buckram gown and long staff, 
I also am well content thou shouldst be as poor and 
contemptible as is good for the health of thy body and 
soul — All I care to know of thee is, the cause which hath 
brought thee to my castle, where few crows of thy kind 
care to settle. Thou art, 1 warrant thee, some ejected 
monk of a suppressed convent, paying in his old days 
the price of the luxurious idleness in which he spent his 
youth. Ay, or it may be some pilgrim with a budget 
of lies from St. James of Compostella, or our Lady of 
Loretto ; or thou mayest be some pardoner with his bud- 
get of reliques from Rome, forgiving sins at a penny a 
dozen, and one to the tale — Ay, 1 guess why I find thee 
in this boy’s company, and doubtless thou wouldst have 
such a strapping lad as he to carry thy wallet, and relieve 
thy lazy shoulders ; but, by the mass, 1 will cross thy 
cunning. 1 make my vow to sun and moon, I will not 
see a proper lad so misleard as to run the country with 
an old knave, like Sirnmie and his brother.* Aw'ay with 
thee !” he added, rising in wrath, and speaking so fast, 
as to give no opportunity of answer, being probably de- 
termined to terrify the elder guest into an abrupt flight — 
“ Away with thee, with thy clouted coat, scrip, and 
scallop-shell, or by the name of Avenel, I will have them 
loose the hounds on thee!” 

Warden waited with the greatest patience until Julian 
Avenel, astonished that the threats and violence of his 
anguage made no impression on him, paused in a sort of 
wonder, and said in a less imperious tone, “ Why the 
fiend dost thou not answer me ?” 

‘‘ When you have done speaking,” said Warden, in 
the same composed manner, “ it will be full time to reply.” 


* Two qurcstionani, or beg-p^in^ friars, whose accoutrements and roguery 
make the subject of an old Scottish satirical poem. 


68 


THE MONASTERY* 


“ Say on, man, in the devil’s name — but take heed — 
beg not here — were it but for the rinds of cheese, the 
refuse of the rats, or a morsel that my dogs would turn 
from — neither a grain of meal, nor the nineteenth part of 
a grey groat, will 1 give to any feigned limmar of thy 
coat.” 

“ It may be,” answered Warden, “ that you would 
have less quarrel with my coat if you knew what it cov- 
ers. I am neither friar nor mendicant, and would be 
right glad to hear thy testimony against these foul de- 
ceivers of God’s church, and usurpers of his rights over 
the Christian flock, were it given in Christian charity.” 

“ And who or what art thou, then,” said Avenel, 
“ that thou comest to this Border land, and art neither 
monk, nor soldier, nor broken man 

“ 1 am an humble teacher of the holy word,” answer- 
ed Warden. “ This letter from a most noble person 
will speak why I am here at this present time.” 

He delivered the letter to the Baron, who regarded 
the seal with some surprise, and then looked on the letter 
itself, which seemed to excite still more. He then fixed 
his eyes on the stranger, and said, in a menacing tone, 
“ I think thou darest not betray me, or deceive me 

“ I am not the man to attempt either,” was the concise 
reply. 

Julian Avenel carried the letter to the window, where 
he perused, or at least attempted to peruse it more than 
once, often looking from the paper and gazing on the 
stranger who had delivered it, as if he meant to read the 
purport of the missive in the face of the messenger. 
Julian at length called to the female, — “ Catherine, 
bestir thee, and fetch me presently that letter which I 
bade thee keep ready at hand in thy casket, having no 
sure lockfast place of my own.” 

Catherine went with the readiness of one willing to be 
employed ; and as she walked, the situation which re- 
quires a wider gown and a longer girdle, and in which 
woman claims from man a double portion of the most 
anxious care, was still more visible than before. She 


THE MONASTERY. 


69 


soon returned with the paper, and was rewarded with a 
cold — “ 1 thank thee, wench ; thou art a careful secre- 
tary.” 


This second paper he also perused and reperused more 
than once,*and still, as he read it, bent from time to time 
a wary and observant eye upon Henry Warden. This 
examination and re-examination, though both the man 
and the place were dangerous, the preacher endured with 
the most composed and steady countenance, seeming, 
under the eagle, or rather the vulture eye of the Baron, 
as unmoved as under the gaze of an ordinary and peace- 
ful peasant. At length Julian Avenel folded both papers, 
and having put them into the pocket of his cloak, cleared 
his brow, and coming forward, addressed his female 
companion. “ Catherine,” said he, “ 1 have done this 
good man injustice, when I mistook him for one of the 
drones of Rome. He is a preacher, Catherine — a 
preacher of the — the new doctrine of the Lords of the 
Congregation.” 

“ The doctrine of the blessed Scriptures,” said the 
preacher, “ purihed from the devices of men.” 

“ Sayest thou .^” said Julian Avenel — “ Well, thou 
mayest call it what thou lists ; but to me it is recom- 
mended, because it flings off all those sottish dreams 
about saints and angels and devils, and unhorses the lazy 
monks that have ridden us so long, and spur-galled us so 
hard. No more masses and corpse-gifts, no more tythes 
and offerings to make men poor — no more prayers or 
psalms to make men cowards — no more christenings and 
penances, and confessions and marriages.” 

“ So please you,” said Henry Warden, “ it is against 
the corruptions, not against the fundamental doctrines of 
the church, which we desire to renovate, and not to 


abolish.” 

“ Prithee, peace, man,” said the Baron ; “ we of 
the laity care not what you set up, so you pull merrily 
down what stands in our way. Specially it suits well 
with us of the Southland fells ; for it is our profession to 


70 


THE MONASTERY. 

turn the world upside down, and we live ever the blithest 
life when the downer side is uppermost. 

Warden would have replied ; but the Baron allowed 
him not time, striking the table with the hilt of his dag- 
ger, and crying out, — “ Ha ! you loitering knaves, bring 
our supper-meal quickly. See you not this holy man is 
exhausted for lack of food F Heard ye ever of priest 
or preacher that devoured not his five meals a-day f” 

The attendants bustled to and fro, and speedily 
brought in several large smoking platters, filled with huge 
pieces of beef, boiled and roasted, but without any variety 
whatsoever ; without vegetables, and almost without 
bread, though there was at the upper end a few oat-cakes 
in a basket. Julian Avenel made a sort of apology to 
Warden. 

“ You have been commended to our care. Sir Preach- 
er, since that is your style, by a person whom we highly 
honour.” 

“ I am assured,” said Warden, “ that the most noble 
Lord” 

“ Prithee, peace, man,” said Avenel ; “ what need 
of naming names, so we understand each other 1 
meant but to speak in reference to your safety and com- 
fort, of which he desires us to be chary. Now, for your 
safety, look at my walls and water. But touching your 
comfort, we have no corn of our own, and the meal-girnels 
of the south are less easily transported than their beeves, 
seeing they have no legs to walk upon. But what though 
a stoup of wine thou shalt have, and of the best — thou 
slialt sit betwixt Catherine and me at the board-end. 
And, Christie, do thou look to the young springald, and 
call to the cellarer for a flagon of the best.” 

The Baron took his wonted place at the upper end 
of the board ; his Catherine sat dowm, and courteously 
pointed to a seat betwixt them for their reverend guest. 
But notwithstanding the influence both of hunger and fa- 
tigue, Henry Warden retained his standing posture. 


THE MOXASTERY. 


71 


CHAPTER Vll. 


When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray — 


Julian Avenel saw with surprise the demeanour of 
the reverend stranger. “ Beshrevv me,” he said, “ these 
new-fashioned religioners have fast-days, I warrant me — 
the old ones used to confer these blessings chiefly on the 
laity.” 

“ We acknowledge no such rule,” said the preacher 
— “ We hold that our faith consists not in using or ab- 
staining from special meats on special days ; and in fast- 
ing we rend our hearts, and not our garments.” ' 

“ The better — the better for yourselves, and the worse 
for Tom Tailor,” said the Baron ; “ but come, sit down, 
or if thou needs must e’en give us a castof thine office, 
mutter thy charm.” 

“ Sir Baron,” said the preacher, ‘‘ I am in a strange 
land, where neither mine office nor my doctrine are 
known, and where, it would seem, both are greatly niis- 
understood. It is my duty so to bear me, that in my 
person, however unworthy, my Master’s dignity may be 
respected, and that sin may take no confidence from 
relaxation of the bonds of discipline.” 

“ Ho la ! halt there,” said the Baron ; “ thou wert 
sent hither for thy safety, but not, I think, to preach to, 
or control me. What is it thou wouldst have. Sir Preach- 
er Remember thou speakest to one somewhat short of 
patience, who loves a short health and a long draught.” 

“ In a word, then,” said Henry Warden, “ that 
lady” 

“ How !” said the Baron, starting — “ what of her ? 

- -what hast thou to say of that dame 


72 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Is she thy house-dame f” said the preacher, after 
a moment’s pause, in which he seemed to seek for the 
best mode of expressing what he had to say — “ Is she 
in brief thy wife f” 

The unfortunate young woman pressed both her hands 
on her face, as if to hide it, but the deep blush which 
crimsoned her brow and neck, showed that her cheeks 
were also glowing ; and the bursting tears which found 
their way betwixt her slender fingers, bore witness to her 
sorrow, as well as to her shame. 

“ Now, by my father’s ashes !” said the Baron, rising 
and spurning from him his footstool with such violence, 
that it hit the wall on the opposite side of the apartment 
— then instantly constraining himself, he muttered, 
“ What need to run myself into trouble for a fool’s 
word — then resuming his seat, he answered coldly and 
scornfully — “ No, Sir Priest or Sir Preacher, Catherine 
is not my wife — Cease thy whimpering, thou foolish 
wench — she is not my wife, but she is hand fasted with 
me, and that makes her as honest a woman.” 

“ Handfasted — repeated Warden. 

“ Knowestthou not that rite, holy man said Avenel, 
in the same tone of derision ; “ then I will tell thee. We 
Border-men are more wary than your inland clowns of 
Fife and Lothian — no jump in the dark for us — no 
clenching the fetters around our wrists till we know how 
they will wear with us— we take our wives, like our hor- 
ses, upon trial. When we are handfasted, as we term 
ii, we are man and wife for a year and day — that space 
gone by, each may choose another mate, or, at their 
pleasure, may call the priest to marry them for life — and 
this we call handfasting. 

“ Then,” said the preacher, “ I tell thee, noble Bar- 
on, in brotherly love to thy soul, it is a custom licentious, 
gross, and corrupted, and if persisted in, dangerous, yea, 
damnable. It binds thee to the frailer being while she is 
the object of desire — it relieves thee when she is most 
the subject of pity — it gives all to brutal sense, and noth- 
ing to generous and gentle affection. I say to thee, that 


THE MONASTERY. 


73 


he who can meditate the breach of such an engagement, 
abandoning the deluded woman and the helpless offspring, 
is worse than the birds of prey, for of them the males 
remain with their males until the nestlings can take wing 
Above all, I say it is contrary to the pure Christian doc- 
trine, which assigns woman to man as the partner of his 
labour, the soother of his evil, his helpmate in peril, his 
friend in affliction ; not as the toy of his looser hours, or 
as a flower, which once cropped, he may throw aside at 
pleasure.” 

“ Now, by the Saints, a most virtuous homily !” said 
the Baron ; “ quaintly conceived and curiously pronounc- 
ed, and to a well-chosen congregation. Hark ye. Sir 
Gospeller ! trow ye to have a fool in hand ? Know I 
not that your sect rose by bluff Harry Tudor, merely 
because ye aided him to change his Kate ; and where- 
fore should I not use the same Christian liberty with 
mine‘s Tush, man ! bless the good food, and meddle not 
with what concerns thee not — thou hast no gull in Julian 
Avenel.” 

“ He hath gulled and cheated himself,” said the 
preacher, “ should he even incline to do that poor sharer 
of his domestic cares the imperfect justice that remains 
to him. Can he now raise her to the rank of a pure and 
iincontamirLated matron ? — Can he deprive his child of 
the misery of owing birth to a mother who has erred ? 
He can indeed give them both the rank, the state of 
married wife and of lawful son ; but in public opinion, 
their names will be smirched and sullied with a stain 
which his tardy efforts cannot entirely efface. Yet ren- 
der it to them, Baron of Avenel, render to them this late 
and imperfect justice. Bid me bind you together for 
ev^er, and celebrate the day of your bridal, not with feast- 
ing or wassail, but with sorrow for past sin, and the reso- 
lution to commence a better life. Happy then will the 
chance have been that has drawn me to this castle, though 
[ come driven by calamity, and unknowing where my 
course is bound, like a leaf travelling on the north wind.” 

7 VOL. ir. 


74 


THE MOXASTERY. 


The plain, and even coarse features, of the zealous 
speaker, were warmed at once and ennobled by the dig- 
nity of his enthusiasm, and the wild Baron, lawless as he 
was, and accustomed to spurn at the control whether of 
religious or moral law, felt, for the first time perhaps in 
his life, that he was under subjection to a mind superior 
to his own. He sat mute and suspended in his delibera- 
tions, hesitating betwixt anger and shame, yet borne down 
by the weight of the just rebuke thus boldly fulminated 
against him. 

The unfortunate young woman, conceiving hopes from 
her tyrant’s silence and apparent indecision, forgot both 
her fear and shame in her timid expectation that Avenel 
would relent, and fixing upon him her anxious and be- 
seeching eyes, gradually drew near and nearer to his 
seat, till at lengtli laying a trembling hand on his cloak, 
she ventured to utter, “ O noble Julian, listen to the good 
man !” 

The speech and the motion were ill-timed, and wrought 
on that proud and wayward spirit the reverse of her 
wishes. 

The fierce Baron started up in fury, exclaiming, “What! 
thou foolish callet, art thou confederate with this strolling 
vagabond, whom thou hast seen beard me in mine own 
hall ! Hence with thee, and think that I am. proof both 
to male and female hypocrisy 1” 

The poor girl started back, astounded at his voice of 
thunder and looks of fury, and turning pale as death, 
endeavoured to obey his orders and tottered towards the 
door. Her limbs failed in the attempt, and she fell on 
the stone floor in a manner which her situation might 
have rendered fatal — The blood gushed from her face — 
Halbert Glendinning brooked not a sight so brutal, but 
uttering a deep imprecation, started from his seat, and 
laid his hand on his sword under the strong impulse of 
passing it through the body of the cruel and hard-hearted 
ruffian. But Christie of the Clint-hill guessing his in- 
tention, threw his arms around him and prevented him 
from stirring to execute his purpose. 


THE MONASTERY. 


75 


The impulse to such a dangerous act of violence was 
indeed but momentary, as it instantly appeared that 
Avenel himself, shocked at the effects of his violence, 
was lifting up and endeavouring to soothe in his own way 
the terrified Catherine. 

“ Peace,” he said, “ prithee, peace, thou silly minion 
— why, Kate, though I listen not to this tramping preach- 
er, I said not what might happen an thou dost bear me 
a stout boy. There — there — dry thy tears — call thy 
women — So ho ! — where be these queans?— Christie — 
Rowley — Hutcheon — drag them hither by the hair of 
the head!” 

A half dozen of startled wild-looking females rushed 
into the room, and bore out her who might be either 
termed their mistress or their companion. She showed 
little sign of life, except by groaning faintly and keeping 
her hand on her side. 

No sooner had this luckless female been conveyed from 
the apartment, than the Baron, advancing to the table, 
filled and drank a deep goblet of wine; then putting an 
obvious restraint on his passions, turned to the preacher, 
who stood horror-struck at the scene he had witnessed, 
and said, “ You have borne too hard on us. Sir Preacher 
— but coming with the commendations which you have 
brought me, I doubt not but your meaning was good. 
But we are a wilder folk than you inland men of Fife 
and Lothian. Be advised, therefore, by me — Spur not 
an unbroken horse — put not your ploughshare too deep 
into new land — Preach to us spiritual liberty, and we will 
hearken to you. — But we will give no way to spiritual 
bondage. — Sit therefore down, and pledge me in old 
sack, and we will talk over other matters.” 

“ It is from spiritual bondage,” said the preacher, in 
the same tone of admonitory reproof, “ that I came to 
deliver you — it is from a bondage more fearful than that 
of the heaviest earthly gyves — it is from your own evil 
passions.” 


76 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Sit down,” said Avenel, fiercely ; “ sit down while 
the play is good — else by my father’s crest and my 
mother’s honour !” 

“ Now,” whispered Christie of the Clint-hill to Hal- 
bert, “ if he refuse to sit down, 1 would not give a grey 
groat for his head.” 

“ Lord Baron,” said Warden, thou hast placed me 
in extremity. But if the question be, whether I am to 
hide the light which 1 am commanded to show forth, or 
to lose the light of this world, my choice is made. 1 say 
to thee, like the Holy Baptist to Herod, it is not lawful 
for thee 'to have this woman; and I say it, though bonds 
and death be the consequence, counting my life as noth- 
ing in cpmparison of the ministry to which I am called.” 

Julian Avenel, ei!raged at the firmness of this reply, 
flung from his right hand the- cup in which he was about 
to drink to his guest, and from the other cast off the 
hawk, which flew wildly through the apartment. His 
first motion was to lay hand upon his dagger. But 
changing his resolution, he exclaimed, “To the dungeon 
with this insolent stroller!— 1 will hear no man speak a 
word for him — Look to the falcon, Christie, thou fool, an 
she escape, 1 will despatch you after her every man — 
Away with that Hypocritical dreamer ! — drag him hence 
if he resist!” 

He was obeyed in both points. Christie of the Clint- 
hill arrested the hawk’s flight, by putting his foot on her 
jesses, and so holding her fast, while Henry Warden 
was led off, without having shown the slightest symptom 
of terror, by two of the Baron’s satellites. Julian Ave- 
nel walked the apartment for a short space in sullen 
silence, and despatching one of his attendants with a 
whispered message, w’hich probably related to the health 
of the unfortunate Catherine, he said aloud, “ These 
rash and meddling priests — by Heaven ! they make us 
worse than we should be without them.”® 

The answer which he presently received seemed 
somewhat to pacify his angry mood, and he took his 


THE MONASTERY. 


77 


place at the board, commanding his retinue to do the 
like. All sat down in silence, and began the repast. 

During the meal, Christie in vain attempted to engage 
his youthful companion in carousal, or, at least, in con- 
versation. Halbert Glendinning pleaded 'fatigue, and 
expressed himself unwilling to take any liquor stronger 
than the heather-ale, which was at that time frequently 
used at meals. Thus every effort at joviality died away, 
until the Baron, striking his hand against the table, as if 
impatient of the long unbroken silence, cried out aloud, 
“ What ho ! my masters — are ye Border-riders, and sit 
as mute over your meal as a mess of monks and friars?— 
some one sing, if no one list to speak. Meat eaten 
without either mirth or music is ill of digestion. 
Louis,” he added, speaking to one of the youngest of 
his followers, “ thou art ready enough to sing when no 
one bids thee.” 

The young man looked first at his master, then up to the 
arched roof of the hall, then drank off the horn of ale or 
wine which stood beside him, and with a rough, yet not 
unmelodious voice, sung the following ditty to the an- 
cient air of “ Blue Bonnets over the Border.” 


I. 

March, march, Ettricke and Teviotdale, 

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order ? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 

All the blue bonnets are bound for the Border. 
Many a banner spread. 

Flutters above j^our head, 

Many a crest that is famous in story j 
Mount and make ready then, 

Sons of the mountain glen, 

Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory • 


II. 

Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing, 
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing. 
Come with the buckler, the lance and the bow. 
Trumpets are sounding, 

7 * VOL. II. 


78 


THE MOXASTERY. 


War-steeds are bounding, 

Stand to your arms then, and march in good order, 
England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray. 

When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border ! 


The song, rude as it was, had in it that warlike char- 
acter which at any other time would have roused Hal- 
bert’s spirit ; but at present the charm of minstrelsy had 
no effect upon him. He made it his request to Christie 
to suffer him to retire to rest, a request with which that 
worthy person, seeing no chance of making a favourable 
impression on his intended proselyte in his present hu- 
mour, was at length pleased to comply. But no Ser- 
geant Kite, who ever practised the profession of recruit- 
ing, was more attentive that his object should not escape 
him, than was Christie of the Clint-hill. He indeed con- 
ducted Halbert Glendinning to a small apartment over- 
looking the lake, which was accommodated with a 
truckle bed. But before quitting him, Christie took 
special care to give a look to the bars which crossed the 
outside of the window, and, when he left the apartment, 
he failed not to give the key a double turn ; circumstances 
which convinced young Glendinning that there was no 
intention of suffering him to depart from the Castle of 
Avenel at his own time and pleasure. He judged it, 
however, most prudent to let these alarming symptoms 
pass without observation. 

No sooner did he find himself in undisturbed solitude, 
than he ran rapidly over the events of the day in his re- 
collection, and to his surprise found that his own preca- 
rious fate, and even the death of Piercie Shafton, made 
less impression on him than the singularly bold and de- 
termined conduct of his companion, Henry Warden. 
Providence, which suits its instruments to the end they 
are to achieve, had awakened in the cause of Reforma- 
tion in Scotland, a body of preachers of more energy 
than refinement, bold in spirit, and strong in faith, con 
temners of whatever stood betwixt them and their prin- 


THE MOXASTERY. 


79 


cipal object, and seeking the advancement of the Great 
Cause in which they laboured by the roughest road, pro- 
vided it were the shortest. The soft breeze may wave 
the willow, but it requires the voice of the tempest to 
agitate the boughs of the oak ; and, accordingly, to mild- 
er hearers, and in a less rude age, their manners would 
have been ill adapted ; but they were singularly success- 
ful in their mission to the rude people to whom it was 
ddressed. 

Owing to these reasons. Halbert Glendinning, who had 
resisted and repelled the arguments of the preacher, was 
forcibly struck by the firmness of his demeanour in the 
dispute with Julian Aveneb It might be discourteous, 
and most certainly it was incautious, to choose such a 
place and such an audience, for upbraiding with his trans- 
gressions a Baron, whom both manners and situation 
placed in full possession of independent power. But 
the conduct of the preacher was uncompromising, firm, 
manly, and obviously grounded upon the deepest convic- 
tion which duty and principle could afford ; and Glen- 
dinning, who had viewed the conduct of Avenel with the 
deepest abhorrence, was proportionally interested in the 
brave old man, who had ventured life rather than with- 
hold the censure due to guilt. This pitch of virtue 
seemed to him to be in religion what was demanded 
by chivalry of her votaries in war: an absolute surrender 
of all selfish feelings, and a combination of every energy 
proper to the human mind, to discharge the task which 
duty demanded. 

Halbert was at the period when youth is most open to 
generous emotions, and knows best how to appreciate 
them in others, and he felt, although he hardly knew why, 
that, whether catholic or heretic, the safety of this man 
deeply interested him. Curiosity mingled with the feel- 
ing, and led him to wonder what the nature of those doc- 
trines could be, which stole their votary so completely 
from himself, and devoted him to chains or to death as 
their sworn champion. He had indeed been told of 
saints and martyrs of former days, who had braved for 


80 


THE MONASTERY* 


their religious faith the extremity of death and torture. 
But their spirit of enthusiastic devotion had long slept 
in the ease and indolent habits of their successors, and 
their adventures, like those of knights-errant, were rather 
read for amusement than for edification. A new impulse 
had been necessary to rekindle the energies of religious 
zeal, and that impulse was now operating in favour of a 
purer religion, with one of whose steadiest votaries the 
youth had now met for the first time. 

^ The sense that he himself was a prisoner, under the 
power of this savage chieftain, by no means diminished 
Halbert’s interest in the fate of his fellow-sufferer, while 
he determined at the same. time so far to emulate his 
fortitude, that neither threats nor suffering should com- 
pel him to enter into the service of such a master. The 
possibility of escape next occurred to him, and though 
with little hope of effecting it in that way, Glendinning 
proceeded to examine more particularly the window of 
the apartment. This apartment was situated in the first 
story of the castle, and was not so far from the rock on 
which it was founded, but that an active and bold man 
might, with little assistance, descend to a shelf of the 
rock which was immediately below the window, and 
from thence either leap or drop himself down into the 
lake which lay below his eye, clear and blue in the 
placid light of a full summer’s moon. — “ Were I once 
placed on that ledge,” thought Glendinning, “ Julian 
Avenel and Christie had seen the last of me.” The size 
of the window favoured such an attempt, but the stanch- 
ions or iron bars seemed to form an insurmountable ob- 
stacle. 

While Halbert Glendinning gazed from the window 
with that eagerness of hope which was prompted by the 
energy of his character and his determination not to 
yield to circumstances, his ear caught some sounds from 
below, and listening with more attention, he could distin- 
guish the voice of the preacher engaged in his solitary 
devotions. To open a correspondence with him became 
immediately his object, and failing to do so by less mark- 


THE MONASTERY. 


81 


ed sounds, he at length ventured to speak, and was answer- 
ed from beneath — “ Is it thou, my son ?” The voice 
of the prisoner now sounded more distinctly than when 
it was first heard, for Warden had approached the small 
aperture, which, serving his prison for a window, opened 
just betwixt the wall and the rock, and admitted a scanty 
portion of light through a wall of immense thickness. 
This soupirail being placed exactly under Halbert’s win- 
dow, the contiguity permitted the prisoners to converse 
in a low tone, when Halbert declared his intention to 
escape, and the possibility he saw of achieving his pur- 
pose, but for the iron stanchions of the window — “ Prove 
thy strength, my son, in the name of God !” said the 
preacher. Halbert obeyed him more in despair than 
hope, but to his great astonishment, and somewhat to his 
terror, the bar parted asunder near the bottom, and the 
longer part being easily bent outwards and not secured 
with lead in the upper socket, dropt out into Halbert’s 
hand. He immediately whispered, but as energetically 
as a whisper could be expressed — “ By Heaven, the 
bar has given way in my hand !” 

“ Thank Heaven, my son, instead of swearing by it,” 
answered Warden from his dungeon. 

With little effort Halbert Glendinning forced himself 
through the opening thus wonderfully effected, and using 
his leathern sword-belt as a rope to assist him, let him- 
self safely drop on the shelf of rock upon which the 
preacher’s window opened. But through this no passage 
could be effected, being scarce larger than a loop-hole 
for musketry, and apparently constructed for that purpose. 

“ Are there no means by which I can assist your es- 
cape, my father said Halbert. 

“ There are none, my son,” answered the preachicr ; 
“ but if thou wilt ensure my safety, that may be in thy 
power.” 

“ I wdll labour earnestly for it,” said the youth. 

“ Take then a letter which I will presently write, for 
I have the means of light and writing materials in my 
scrip — Hasten towards Edinburgh, and on the way thou 


• 82 


THE MONASTERY. 


wilt meet a body of horse marching southwards — Give 
this to their leader, and acquaint him of the state in 
which thou hast left me. It mayhap that thy doing so 
will advantage thyself.” 

In a minute or two the light of a taper gleamed 
through the shot-hole, and very shortly after, the preach- 
er, with the assistance of his staff, pushed a billet to 
Glendinning through the window. 

“ God bless thee, my son,” said the old man, “ and 
complete the marvellous work which he hath begun !” 

“ Amen !” answered Halbert, with solemnity, and 
proceeded on his enterprize. 

He hesitated a moment whether he should attempt to 
descend to the edge of the water ; but the steepness of the 
rock, notwithstanding the clearness of the night, rendered 
the enterprise too dangerous. He clasped his hands above 
his head and boldly sprung from the precipice, shooting 
himself forward into the air as far as he could for fear of 
sunken rocks, and alighted on the lake, head foremost, with 
such force as surtk him for a minute below the surface. But 
strong, long-breathed, and accustomed to such exercise. 
Halbert, even though encumbered wnth his sword, dived 
and rose like a sea-fowl, and swam across the lake in the 
northern direction. When he landed and looked back 
on the castle, he could observe that the alarm had been 
given, for lights glanced from window to window, and he 
heard the draw-bridge lowered, and the tread of horses’ 
feet upon the causeway. But little alarmed for the con- 
sequence of a pursuit during the darkness, he wrung the 
water from his dress, and plunging into the moors, direct- 
ed his course to the north-east by the assistance of the 
polar star. 


THE MONASTERY. 


83 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Why, what an intricate impeach is this I 

I think you all have drank of Circe's cup. 

If here you hous’d him, here he would have been ; 

If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly. 

Comedy of Errors. 

The course of our story, leaving for the present Halbert 
Glendinning to the guidance of his courage and his for- 
tune, returns to the tower of Glendearg, where matters 
in the meanwhile fell out with which it is most fitting 
that the reader should be acquainted. 

The meal was prepared at noontide with all the care 
which Elspeth and Tibb, assisted by the various accom- 
modations which had been supplied from the Monastery, 
could bestow on it. Their dialogue ran on as usual in 
the intervals of their labour, partly as between mistress 
and servant, partly as maintained by gossips of nearly 
equal quality. 

“ Look to the minced meat, Tibb,” said Elspeth ; 
“ and turn the broach even, thou good-for-nothing Sim- 
mie, — thy wits are harrying bird’s nests, child. — Weel, 
Tibb, this is a fasheous job, this Sir Piercie lying leaguer 
with us up here, and wha kens for how lang 

“ A fasheous job, indeed,” answered her faithful at- 
tendant, “ and little good did the name ever bring to fair 
Scotland. Ye may have your hands fuller of them than 
they are yet — Mony a sair heart have the Piercies given 
to Scots wife and bairns with their pricking on the Bor- 
ders. There was Hotspur, and many more of that 
bloody kindred, have sat in our skirts since Malcolm’s 
time, as Martin says !” 

“ Martin should keep a weel scrapit tongue in his 
head,” said Elspeth, “ and not slander the kin of any 
body that quarters at Glendearg ; forby, that Sir Piercie 


84 


THE MOXASTERY. 


Shafton is much respected with the holy fathers of the 
community, and they will make up to us ony fasherie 
that we may have with him, either by good word or good 
deed, I’se warrant them. He is a considerate lord the 
Lord Abbot.” 

. “ And weel he likes a saft seat to his hinder end,” said 
Tibb ; “ 1 have seen a belted baron sit on a bare bench, 
and find nae fault. But an ye are pleased, mistress, I 
am pleased.” 

“ Now, in good time, here comes Mysie of the Mill. 
And where hae ye been, lass, for a’s gaen wrang without 
you said Elspeth. 

“ I just gaed a blink up the burn,” said Mysie, “ for 
tlie young lady has been down on her bed, and is no 
just that weel — So I gaed a glifF up the burn.” 

“ To see the young lads come hame frae the sport, 
I will warrant you,” said Elspeth. “ Ay, ay, Tibb, that’s 
the way the young folk guide us, Tibbie — leave us to do 
the wark, and out to the play themsells.” 

“ Ne’er a bit of that, mistress,” said the Maid of the 
Mill, stripping her round pretty arms, and looking active- 
ly and good-humoredly about her for some duty that she 
could discharge, “ but just — I thought ye might like to 
ken if they were coming back, just to get the dinner 
forward.” 

“ And saw you aught of them, then demanded 
Elspeth. 

“ Not the least tokening,” said Mysie, “ though I got 
to the head of a knowe, and though the English knight’s 
beautiful white feather could have been seen over all 
the bushes in the Shaw.” 

“ The knight’s white feather !” said dame Glendin- 
ning ; “ ye are a sillie hempie — my Halbert’s high head 
will be seen farther than his feather, let it be as white as 
it like, 1 trow.” 

Mysie made no answer, but began to knead dough for 
wastel-cake with all despatch, observing that Sir Piercie 
had partaken of that dainty, and commended it upon the 
preceding day. And presently, in order to place on the 


TIIK MONASTERY. 


85 


fire the girdle or iron plate on which these cates were to 
be baked, she displaced a stew-pan in which some of 
Tibb’s delicacies were submitted to the action of the 
kitchen fire. Tibb muttered betwixt her teeth — “ And 
it is the broth for my sick bairn, that maun make room 
for the dainty Southron’s wastel-bread ! It was a blithe 
time in Wight Wallace’s day, or good King Robert’s, 
when the pock-puddings gat naething here but hard straiks 
and bloody crowns. But we will see how it will a’ end.” 

Elspeth did not think it proper to notice these discon- 
tented expressions of Tibbie, but they sunk into her mind ; 
for she was apt to consider her as a sort of authority in 
matters of war and policy, with which her former expe- 
rience as bower-woman at Avenel castle made her better 
acquainted than were the peaceful inhabitants of the 
Halidome. She only spoke, however, to express her 
surprise that the hunters did not return. 

“ And they come not back the sooner,” said Tibb, 
they will fare the waur, for the meat will be roasted to 
a cinder — and there is poor Simmie that can turn the spit 
nae langer ; the bairn is melting like an icicle in warm 
water — Gang awa, bairn, and take a mouthful of the 
caller air, and I will turn the broach till ye come back.” 

“ Rin up to the bartizan at the tower head, callant,” 
said Dame Glendinning, “ the air will be callerer there 
than ony gate else, and bring us word if our Halbert and 
the gentleman are coming down the glen.” 

The boy lingered long enough to allow his substitute, 
Tibb Tacket, heartily to tire of her own generosity, and 
of his cricket-stool by the side of a huge fire. He at 
length returned wdth the news that he had seen nobody. 

The matter was not remarkable so far as Halbert Glen- 
dinning was concerned, for, patient alike of want and of 
fatigue, it was no uncommon circumstance for him to 
remain in the wilds till curfew time. But nobody had 
given Sir Piercie Shafton credit for being so keen a 
sportsman, and the idea of an Englishman preferring the 
chase to his dinner was altogether inconsistent with thrlj 
8 VOL. II. 


86 


THE MONASTERY. 


preconceptions of the national character. Amidst won- 
dering and conjecturing, the usual dinner-hour passed 
long away 5 and the inmates of the tower, taking a hasty 
meal themselves, adjourned their more solemn prepara- 
tions until the hunters’ return at night, since it seemed 
now certain that their sport had either carried them to a 
greater distance, or engaged them for a longer time, than 
had been expected. 

About four hours after noon, arrived, not the expected 
sportsmen, but an unlooked-for visitant, the Sub-Prior 
from the Monastery. The scene of the preceding day 
had dwelt on the mind of Father Eustice, who was of that 
keen and penetrating cast of character which loves not 
to leave unascertained whatever of mysterious is subject- 
ed to its inquiry. His kindness was interested in the 
family of Glendearg, which he had now known for a long 
time ; and besides, the community was interested in the 
preservation of the peace betwixt Sir Piercie Shafton 
and his youthful host, since whatever might draw public 
attention on the former, could not fail to be prejudicial 
to the Monastery, which was already threatened by the 
hand of power. He found the family assembled all but 
Mary Avenel, and was informed that Halbert Glendinning 
had accompanied the. stranger on a day’s sport. So far 
was well. They had not returned ; but when did youth 
and sport conceive themselves bound by set hours ? 
and the circumstance excited no alarm in his mind. 

While he was conversing with Edward Glendinning 
touching his progress in the studies he had pointed out 
to him, they were startled by a shriek from Mary Ave- 
nel’s apartment, which drew the whole family thither in 
headlong haste. They found her in a swoon in the 
arms of old Martin, who was bitterly accusing himself of 
having killed her ; so indeed it seemed, for her pale fea- 
tures and closed eyes argued rather a dead corpse than a 
living person. The whole family were instantly in tu- 
mult, snatching her from Martin’s arms with the eager- 
ness of affectionate terror. Edward bore her to the 
casement, that she might receive the influence of the open 


THE MOXxlSTERY. 


87 


air ; the Sub-Prior, who, like many of his profession, had 
some knowledge of medicine, hastened to prescribe the 
readiest remedies which occurred to him, and the terri- 
fied females contended with and impeded each other, in 
their rival efforts to be useful. 

“ It has been ane of her weary gbaists,” said Dame 
Glendinning. 

“ It’s just a trembling on her spirits, as her blessed 
mother used to have,” said Tibb. 

“ It’s some ill news has come ower her,” said the 
Miller’s maiden, while burnt feathers, cold water, and all 
the usual means of restoring suspended animation, were 
employed alternately, and with little effect. 

At length a new assistant, who had joined the group 
unobserved, tendered his aid in the following terms : — 
“ How is this, my most fair Discretion ? What cause 
hath moved the ruby current of life to rush back to the 
citadel of the heart, leaving pale those features in which 
it should have delighted to meander for ever ? — Let me 
approach her,” he said, “ with this sovereign essence, 
distilled by the fair hands of the divine Urania, and 
powerful to recall fugitive life, even if it were trembling 
on the verge of departure.” 

Thus speaking. Sir Piercie Shafton knelt down, and 
most gracefully presented to the nostrils of Mary Avenel 
a silver pouncet-box, exquisitely chased, containing a 
sponge dipped in the essence which he recommended 
so highly. Yes, gentle reader, it was Sir Piercie Shaf- 
ton himself who thus unexpectedly proffered his good 
offices ! his cheeks, indeed, very pale, and some part of 
his dress stained with blood, but not otherwise appearing 
different from what he was on the preceding evening. 
But no sooner bad Mary Avenel opened her eyes, and 
fixecf them on the figure of the officious courtier, than 
she screamed faintly, and exclaimed, — “ Secure the 
murderer !” # 

Those present stood aghast with astonishment, and 
none more so than the Euphuist, who found himself so 
suddenly and so strangely accused by the patient whom 


88 


THE MONASTERY. 


he was endeavouring to succour, and who repelled his 
attempts to yield her assistance with all the energy of 
abhorrence. 

“ Take him away!” she exclaimed — “ take away the 
murderer!” 

“ Now, by my knighthood,” answered Sir Piercie, 
“ your lovely faculties either of mind or body, are, O 
my most fair Discretion, obnubilated by some strange 
hallucination! For either your eyes do not discern that 
it is Piercie Shafton, your most devoted Affability, who 
now stands before you, or else, your eyes discerning truly, 
your mind has most erroneously concluded that he has 
been guilty of some delict or violence to which his hand 
is a stranger. No murder, O most scornful Discretion 
hath been this day done, saving but that which your an- 
gry glances are now performing on your most devoted 
captive.” 

He was here interrupted by the Sub-Prior, who had, 
in the mean time, been speaking with Martin apart, and 
had received from him an account of the circumstances 
which, suddenly communicated to Mary Avenel, had 
thrown her into this state. Sir Knight,” said the Sub- 
Prior, in a very solemn tone, yet with some hesitation, 
“ circumstances have been communicated to us of a na- 
ture so extraordinary, that, reluctant as I am to exercise 
such authority over a guest of our venerable community, 
1 am constrained to request from you an explanation of 
them. You left this tower early in the morning, accom- 
panied by a youth. Halbert Glendinning, the eldest son 
of this good dame, and you return hither without him. 
Where, and at what hour, did you part company from 
him ?” 

The English knight paused for a moment, and then 
replied, — “ I marvel that your reverence employs so 
grave a tone to enforce so light a question. I parted with 
the villagio whom you call Halbert Glendinning some 
hour or twain after sunrise.” 

“ And at what place, I pray you ?” said the Monk. 


THE MONASTERY. 89 

“ In a deep ravine, where a fountain rises at the base 
of a huge rock ; an earth-born Titan, which heaveth up 
its grey head, even as ” 

“ Spare us further description,” said the Sub-Prior ; 
“ we know the spot. But that youth hath not since been 
heard of, and it will fall on you to account for him.” 

“ My bairn ! my bairn !” exclaimed Dame Glen- 
dinning. “ Yes, holy father, make the villain account 
for my bairn !” 

“ I swear, good woman, by bread and by water, which 
are the props of our life ” 

“ Swear by wine and wastel-bread, for these are the 
props of thy life, thou greedy Southron !” said Dame 
Glendinning ; — “ a base belly-god, to come here to eat 
the best, and practise on our lives that give it to him !” 

“ I tell thee, woman,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “ I 
did but go with thy son to the hunting.” 

“ A black hunting it has been to him, poor bairn,” 
replied Tibb ; “ and sae I said it wad prove, since I first 
saw the false Southron snout of thee. Little good comes 
of a Piercie’s hunting, from Chevy Chase till now.” 

“ Be silent woman,” said the Sub-Prior, “ and rail 
not upon the English knight ; we do not yet know of any 
thing beyond suspicion.” 

“ We will have his heart’s blood!” said Dame Glen- 
dinning ; and, seconded by the faithful Tibbie, she made 
such a sudden onslaught on the unlucky Euphuist, as 
must have terminated in something serious, had not the 
Monk, aided by Mysie Happer, interposed to protect him 
from their fury. Edward had left the apartment the in- 
stant the disturbance broke out, and now entered, sword 
in hand, followed by Martin and Jasper, the one having 
a hunting-spear in his hand, the other a cross-bow. 

“ Keep the door,” he said to his two attendants ; 
“ shoot him or stab him without mercy, should he attempt 
to break forth ; if he offers an escape, by Heaven he 
shall die !” 

8* VOL. II. 


90 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ How now, Edward,” said the Sub-Prior ; “ how 
is this that you so far forget yourself f meditating violence 
to a guest, and in my presence, who represent your liege 
lord 

Edward stepped forward with his drawn sword in his 
hand. “ Pardon me, reverend father,” he said, “ but in 
this matter the voice of nature speaks louder and stronger 
than yours. I turn my sword’s point against this proud 
man, and J demand of him the blood of my brother — 
the blood of my father’s son — of the heir of our name ! 
If he denies to give me a true account of him, he shall 
not deny me vengeance.” 

Embarrassed as he was. Sir Piercie Shafton showed 
no personal fear. “ Put up thy sword,” he said, “ young 
man ; notin the same day does Piercie Shafton contend 
with two peasants.” 

“ Hear him ! he confesses the deed, holy father,” 
said Edward. 

“ Be patient, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, endeav- 
ouring to soothe the feelings which he could not other- 
wise control, “ be patient — thou wilt attain the ends of 
justice better through my means than thine own violence 
— And you, women, be silent — Tibb, remove your mis- 
tress and Mary Avenel.” 

While Tibb, with the assistance of the other females 
of the household, bore the poor Mother and Mary Avenel 
into separate apartments, and while Edward, still keep- 
ing his sword in his hand, hastily traversed the room, as 
if to prevent the possibility of Sir Piercie Shafton’s 
escape, the Sub-Prior insisted upon knowing from the 
perplexed knight the particulars which he knew respect- 
ing Halbert Glendinning. His situation became extreme- 
ly embarrassing, for what he might with safety have told 
of the issue of their combat was so revolting to his pride, 
that he could not bring himself to enter into the detail ; 
and of Halbert’s actual fate he knew, as the reader is 
well aware, absolutely nothing. 

The father in the meanwhile pressed him with remon- 
strances, and prayed him to observe, he would greatly 


THE MOXASTERY. 


91 


prejudice himself by declining to give a full account of 
the transactions of the day. “ You cannot deny,” he 
said, “ that yesterday you seemed to take the most violent 
offence at this unfortunate youth ; and that you suppressed 
your resentment so suddenly as to impress us all with 
surprise. Last night you proposed to him this day’s 
hunting party, and you set out together by break of day. 
You parted, you said, at the fountain near the rock, about 
an hour or twain after sunrise, and it appears that before 
you parted you had been at strife together.” 

“ I said not so,” replied the Knight. “ Here is a coil, 
indeed, about the absence of a rustical bondsman, who, 1 
dare say, hath gone off (if he be gone) to join the next 
rascally band of freebooters ! Ye ask me, a knight of 
the Piercie’s lineage, to account for such an insignificant 
fugitive ; and I answer, — let me know the price of his 
head, and 1 will pay it to your convent treasurer.” 

“ You admit, then, that you have slain my brother?” 
said Edward, interfering once more ; “ I will presently 
show you at what price we Scots rate the lives of our 
friends!” 

“ Peace, Edward, peace — I entreat — T command 
thee,” said the Sub-Prior ; and you. Sir Knight, think 
better of us than to suppose you may spend Scottish 
blood, and reckon for it as for wine spilt in a drunken 
revel. This youth was no bondsman — thou well knowest* 
that in thine own land thou hadst not dared to lift thy 
sword against the meanest subject of England, but her 
laws would have called thee to answer for the deed. 
Do not hope it will be otherwise here, for you wdll but 
deceive yourself.” 

“ You drive me beyond my patience,” said the Eu- 
phuist, “ even as the over-driven ox is urged into mad- 
ness!— What can I tell you of a young fellow whom I have 
not seen since the second hour after sunrise ?” 

“ But can you explain in what circumstances you part- 
ed with him said the Monk. 

What are the circumstances, in the devil’s name, 
which you desire should be explained? — for although I 


92 


THE MONASTERY. 


protest against this constraint as alike unworthy and in- 
hospitable, yet would 1 willingly end this fray, provided 
that by words it may be ended,” said the knight. 

“ If these end it not,” said Edward, “ blows shall, 
and that full speedily.” 

“ Peace, impatient boy!” said the Sub-Prior ; “ and 
do you. Sir Piercie Shafton, acquaint me why the ground 
is bloody by the verge of the fountain in Corrinan-shian, 
where, as you say yourself, you parted from Halbert 
Glendinning f” 

Resolute not to avow his defeat if possibly he could 
avoid it, the knight answered in a haughty tone, that he 
supposed it was no unusual thing to find the turf bloody 
where hunters had slain a deer. 

“ And did you bury your game as well as kill it .^” 
inquired the Monk. “We must know from you who is the 
tenant of that grave, that newly-made grave, beside the 
very fountain whose margin is so deeply crimsoned with 
blood ? — Thou seest thou canst not evade me ; therefore, 
be ingenuous, and tell us the fate of this unhappy youth, 
whose body is doubtless lying under that bloody turf.” 

“ If it be,” said Sir Piercie, “ they must have buried 
him alive ; for I swear to thee, reverend father, that this 
rustic juvenal parted from me in perfect health. Let the 
grave be searched, and if his body be found, then deal 
with me as ye list.” 

“ It is not my sphere to determine thy fate, Sir Knight, 
but that of the Lord Abbot, and the right reverend 
Chapter. It is but my duty to collect such information 
as may best possess their wisdom with the matters which 
have chanced.” 

“ Might I presume so far, reverend father,” said the 
Knight, “ I should wish to know the author and evidence 
of all these suspicions, so unfoundedly urged against me 

“ It is soon told,” said the Sub-Prior ; “ nor do I wish 
to disguise it, if it can avail you in your defence. This 
maiden, Mary Avenel, apprehending that you nourished 
malice against her foster-brother under a friendly brow, 
did advisedly send up the old man, Martin Tacket, to 


THE MONASTERY. 


93 


follow your footsteps and to prevent mischief. But it 
seems that your evil passions had outrun precaution ; for, 
when he came to the spot, guided by your footsteps upon 
the dew, he found but the bloody turf and the new-cov- 
ered grave ; and after long and vain search through 
the wilds after Halbert and yourself, he brought back the 
sorrowful news to her who had sent him.” 

“ Saw he not my doublet, 1 pray you ?” said Sir Pier- 
cie ; “ for when 1 came to myself I found that I was 
wrapped in my cloak, but without my under garment, 
as your reverence may observe.” 

So saying, he opened his cloak, forgetting, with his 
characteristical inconsistency, that he showed his shirt 
stained with blood. 

“ How ! cruel man,” said the Monk, when he observ- 
ed this confirmation of his suspicions ; “ wilt thou deny 
the guilt, even while thou beareston thy person the blood 
thou hast shed f Wilt thou longer deny that thy rash 
hand has robbed a mother of a son, our community of 
a vassal, the Queen of Scotland of a liege subject and 
what canst thou expect, but that, at the least, we deliver 
thee up to England, as undeserving our further protec- 
tion ?” 

“ By the Saints !” said the Knight, now driven to ex- 
tremity, “ if this blood be the witness against me, it is 
but rebel blood, since this morning at sunrise it flowed 
within my own veins.” 

“ How were that possible. Sir Piercie Shafton,” said 
the Monk, “ since I see no wound from whence it can 
have flowed .^” 

“ That,” said the Knight, “ is the most mysterious part 
of the transaction — See here !” 

So saying, he undid his shirt-collar, and opening his 
bosom, showed the spot through which Halbert’s sword 
had passed, but already cicatrised, and bearing the ap- 
pearance of a wound lately healed. 

‘‘ This exhausts my patience. Sir Knight,” said the 
Sub-Prior, “ and is adding insult to violence and injury. 
Do you hold me for a child or an idiot, that you pretend 


94 


THE MONi\STERY. 


to make me believe that the fresh blood with which your 
shirt is stained, flowed from a wound which has been 
healed for weeks or months ! Unhappy mocker, ihink’st 
thou thus to blind us ? Too well do we know that is the 
blood of your victim, wrestling with you in the desperate 
and mortal struggle, which has thus dyed your apparel.” 

The Knight, after a moment’s recollection, said in re- 
ply, “ I will be open with you, my father — bid these men 
stand out of ear-shot, and I will tell you all I know of 
this mysterious business ; and muse not, good father, 
though it may pass thy wit to expound it, for I avouch to 
you it is too dark for mine own.” 

The Monk commanded Edward and the two men to 
withdraw, assuring the former that his conference wdth 
the prisoner should be brief, and giving him permission to 
keep watch at the door of the apartment ; without which 
allowance he might, perhaps, have had some difficulty 
in procuring his absence. Edward had no sooner left 
the chamber, than he despatched messengers to one or 
two families of the Halidome, with whose sons his broth- 
er and he sometimes associated, to tell them that Halbert 
Glendinning had been murdered by an Englishman, and 
to require them to repair to the tower of Glendearg 
without delay. The duty of revenge in such cases was 
held so sacred, that he had no reason to doubt they would 
instantly come with such assistance as would insure the 
detention of the prisoner. He then locked the doors of 
the tower, both inner and outer, and also the gate of the 
court-yard. Having taken these precautions, he made a 
hasty visit to the females of the family, exhausting him- 
self in efforts to console them and in protestations that he 
would have vengeance for his murdered brother. 


THE MONASTERY. 


95 


CHAPTER IX. 

Now, by Our Lady, Sheriff, His 'hard reckoning, 

That I, with every odds of birth and barony, 

Should be detain’d here for the casual death 
Of a wild forester, whose utmost having 
Is but the brazen buckle of the belt 
In which he slicks his hedge-knife. 

Old Play, 

While Edward was making preparations for securing 
and punishing the supposed murderer of his brother, with 
an intense thirst for vengeance which had not hitherto 
shown itself as part of his character, Sir Piercie Shafton 
made such communications as it pleased him to the Sub- 
Prior, who listened with great attention, though the 
Knight’s narrative was none of the clearest, especially 
as his self-conceit led him to conceal or abridge the details 
which were necessary to render it intelligible. 

“ You are to know,” he said, “ reverend father, that 
this rustical juvenal having chosen to offer me, in the 
presence of your venerable Superior, yourself, and other 
excellent and worthy persons, besides the damsel Mary 
Avenel, whom I term my Discretion in all honour and 
kindness, a gross insult, rendered yet more intolerable 
I ■ the time and place, my just resentment did so gain 
the mastery over my discretion, that I resolved to allow 
him the privileges of an equal, and to indulge him with 
the combat.” 

“ But, Sir Knight,” said the Sub-Prior, ‘‘ you still 
leave two matters very obscure. First, why the token he 
presented to you gave you so much offence, as I with 
others witnessed ; and then again, how the youth, whom 
you then met for the first, or, at least, the second time, 
knew so much of your history as enabled him so greatly 
to move you.” 


96 


THE MONASTERY. 


The Knight coloured very deeply. 

“ For your first query,” he said, “ most reverend 
father, we will, if you please, pretermit it as nothing es- 
sential to the matter in hand ; and for the second — 1 
protest to you that I know as little of his means of 
knowledge as you do, and that I am well nigh persuaded 
he deals with Sathanas, of which more anon. Well, sir 
— In the evening I failed not to vail my purpose with a 
pleasant brow, as is the custom amongst us marlialists, 
who never display the bloody colours of defiance in our 
countenance until our hand is armed to fight under them. 
J amused the fair Discretion with some canzonets, and 
other toys, which could not but be ravishing to her in- 
experienced ears. I arose in the morning, met my an- 
tagonist, who, to say truth, for an inexperienced villagio, 
comported himself as stoutly as 1 could have desired. 
So, coming to the encounter, reverend sir, I did try his 
metal with some half-a-dozen of downright passes, with 
any one of which I could have been through his body, 
only that I was loth to take so fatal an advantage, but 
rather, mixing mercy with my just indignation, studied to 
inflict upon him some flesh-wound of no very fatal quality. 
But, sir, in the midst of my clemency, he being instigated, 
1 think, by the devil, did follow up his first offence with 
some insult of the same nature. Whereupon being eager 
to punish him, I made an estramazone, and my foot slip- 
ping at the same time, — not from any fault of fence on 
my part, or any advantage of skill on his, but the devil 
having, as 1 said, taken up the matter in hand, and the 
grass being slippery, — ere T recovered my position I en- 
countered his sword, which he had advanced, with my 
undefended person, so that, as I think, I was in some sort 
run through the body. My juvenal, being beyond meas- 
ure appalled at his own unexpected and unmerited suc- 
cess in this strange encounter, takes the flight and leaves 
me there, and 1 fall into a dead swoon for the lack of the 
blood I had lost so foolishly — and when I awake, as 
from a sound sleep, I find myself lying, an it like you, 
wrapt up in my cloak at the foot of one of the birch- 


THE MONASTERY. 


97 


trees which stand together in a clump near to this place, 
1 feel my limbs, and experience little pain, but much 
weakness — I put my hand to the wound — it was whole 
and skinned over as you now see it — I rise and come 
hither ; and in these words you have my whole day’s 
story.” 

“ I can only reply to so strange a tale,” answered the 
Monk, “ that it is scarce possible that Sir Piercie Shafton 
can expect me to credit it. Here is a quarrel, the cause 
of vyhich you conceal,-^a wound received in the morn- 
ing, of which there is no recent appearance at sunset, — a 
grave filled up, in which no body is deposited, — the van- 
quished found alive and well, — the victor departed no 
man knows whither. These things. Sir Knight, hang 
not so well together, that I should receive them as gospel.” 

“ Reverend father,” answered Sir Piercie Shafton, 
“ I pray you in the first place to observe, that if I offer 
peaceful and civil justification of that which I have al- 
ready averred to be true, I do so only in devout deference 
to your dress and to your order, protesting, that to any 
other opposite, saving a man of religion, a lady, or my 
liege prince, I would not deign to support that which I 
had once attested, otherwise than with the point of my 
good sword. And so much being premised, I have to 
add, that I can but gage my honour as a gentleman, and 
my faith as a Catholic Christian, that the things which 
I have described to you have happened to me as I have 
described them, and not otherwise.” 

“ It is a deep assertion. Sir Knight,” answered the 
Sub-Prior ; “ yet, bethink you, it is only an assertion, 

and that no reason can be alleged w^hy things should be 
believed which are so contrary to reason. Let me pray 
you to say whether the grave, which has been seen at 
your place of combat, was open or closed when your 
encounter took place f” 

“ Reverend father,” said the Knight, ‘‘ I will veil 
from you nothing, but show you each secret of my 
bosom, even as the pure fountain revealeth the smallest 
9 VOL. II 


98 


THE MONASTERY. 


pebble which graces the sand at the bottom of its crystal 
mirror, and as” 

“ Speak in plain terms, for the love of heaven!” said 
the Monk ; “ these holiday phrases belong not to solemn 
affairs — Was the grave open when the conflict began f” 
“ It was,” answered the Knight, “ I acknowledge it ; 

even as he that acknowledgeth” 

“ Nay, I pray you, fair son, forbear these similitudes, 
and observe me. On yesterday at even no grave was 
found in that place, for old Martin chanced, contrary to 
his wont, to go thither in quest of a strayed sheep. At 
break of day, by your own confession, a grave was open- 
ed in that spot, and there a combat was fought — only one 
of the combatants appears, and he is covered with blood, 
and to all appearance woundless.” — Here the Knight 
made a gesture of impatience. — “ Nay , fair son, hear me 
but one moment — the grave is closed and covered by 
the sod — what can we believe, but that it conceals the 
bloody corpse of the fallen duellist 

“ By Heaven, it cannot !” said the Knight, “ unless 
the juvenal hath slain himself, and buried himself, in 
order to place me in the predicament of his murderer.” 

“ The grave shall doubtless be explored, and that by 
to-morrow’s dawn,” said the Monk ; “ I will see it done 
with mine own eyes.” 

“ But,” said the prisoner, “ I protest against all evi- 
dence which may arise from its contents, and do insist 
beforehand, that whatever may be found in that grave 
shall not prejudicate me in my defence. I have been so 
haunted by diabolical deceptions in this matter, that what 
do I know but that the devil may assume the form of this 
rustical juvenal, in order to procure me farther vexation ? 
I protest to you, holy father, it is my very thought that 
there is witchcraft in all that hath befallen me. Since I 
entered into this northern land, in which men say that 
sorceries do abound, J, who am held in awe and regard 
even by the prime gallants in the court of Feliciana, have 
been here bearded and taunted by a clod-treading clown. 
I, whom Vincentio Saviola termed his nimblest and most 


THE MOJfASTERY. 


agile disciple, was, to speak briefly, foiled by a cow-boy, 
who knew no more of fence than is used at every coun- 
try wake. I am run, as it seemed to me, through the 
body, with a very sufficient stoccata, and faint on the spot ; 
and yet, when 1 recover, I find myself without either 
wem or wound, and lacking nothing of my apparel, 
saving my murrey-coloured doublet, slashed with satin, 
which I will pray may be inquired after, lest the devil, 
who transported me, should have dropped it in his pas- 
sage among some of the trees or bushes — it being a 
choice and most fanciful piece of raiment, which I wore 
for the first time at the Queen’s pageant in Southwark.” 

“ Sir Knight,” said the Monk, “ you do again go 
astray from this matter. I inquire of you respecting that 
which concerns the life of another man, and, it may be, 
touches your own also, and you answer me with a tale of 
an old doublet !” 

“ Old !” exclaimed the Knight ; “ now, by the gods 
and saints, if there be a gallant at the British Court more 
fancifully considerate, and more considerately fanciful, 
more quaintly curious, and more curiously quaint, in fre- 
quent changes of all rich articles of vesture, becoming 
one who may be accounted point-de-vice a courtier,! will 
give you leave to term me a slave and a liar.” 

The Monk thought, but did not say, that he had al- 
ready acquired right to doubt the veracity of the Eu- 
phuist, considering the marvellous tale which he had 
told. Yet his own strange adventure, and that of Father 
Philip, rushed on his mind, and forbade his coming to 
any conclusion. He contented himself, therefore, with 
observing, that these were certainly strange incidents, and 
requested to know if Sir Piercie Shafton had any other 
reason for suspecting himself to be in a manner so par- 
ticularly selected for the sport of sorcery and witchcraft. 

“ Sir Sub-Prior,” said the Euphuist, “ the most ex 
traordinary circumstance remains behind, which alone, 
had I neither been bearded in dispute, nor foiled in com- 
bat, nor wounded and cured in the space of a few hours, 
would nevertheless of itself, and without any other cor- 


100 


THE MONASTERY. 


roborative, have compelled me to believe myself the 
subject of some malevolent fascination. Reverend Sir, 
it is not to your ears that men should tell tales of love and 
gallantry, nor is Sir Piercie Shafton one who, to any 
ears whatsoever, is wont to boast of his fair acceptance 
with the choice and prime beauties of the court ; inso- 
much that a lady, none of the least resplendent constel- 
lations which revolve in that hemisphere of honour, 
pleasure, and beauty, but w’hose name I here pretermit, 
was wont to call me her Taciturnity. Nevertheless truth 
must be spoken ; and I cannot but allow, as the general 
report of the court, allowed in camps and echoed back 
by city and country, that in the alacrity of the accost, 
the tender delicacy of the regard, the facetiousness of 
the address, the adopting and pursuing of the fancy, the 
solemn close and the graceful fall-ofF, Piercie Shafton 
was accounted the only gallant of tKe time, and so vrell 
accepted amongst the choicer beauties of the age, that 
no silk-hosed reveller of the presence-chamber, or plumed 
jouster of the tilt-yard, approached him by a bow’s-length 
in the ladies’ regard, being the mark at which every 
well-born and generous Juvenal aimeth his shaft. Never- 
theless, reverend Sir, having found in this rude place 
something which by blood and birth might be termed 
a lady, and being desirous to keep my gallant humour in 
exercise, as well as to show my sworn devotion to the 
sex in general, I did shoot off some arrows of compli- 
ment at this Mary Avenel, terming her my Discretion, 
with other quaint and well-imagined courtesies, rather 
bestowed out of my bounty than warranted by her merit, 
or perchance like unto the boyish fowler, who, rather than 
not exercise his bird-piece, will shoot at crows or magpies 
for lack of better game” 

“ Mary Avenel is much obliged by your notice,” an- 
swered the Monk ; “ but to what does all this detail of 
past and present gallantry conduct us ?” 

“ Marry, to this conclusion,” answered the Knight ; 
“ that either tliis my Discretion, or I myself, am little 
less than bewitched ; for, instead of receiving my accost 


THE MOXASTERY. 


101 


with a gratified bow, answering my regard with a sup- 
pressed smile, accompanying my faliing-ofF or departure 
with a slight sigh, honours with which I protest to you the 
noblest dancers and proudest beauties in Feliciana have 
graced my poor services, she hath paid me as little and 
as cold regard as if I had been some hobnailed clown of 
these bleak mountains ! Nay, this very day, while I was 
in the act of kneeling at her feet to render her the suc- 
cours of this pungent quintessence of purest spirit distilled 
by the fairest hands of the court of Feliciana, she pushed 
me from her with looks which savoured of repugnance, 
and, as I think, thrust at me with her foot as if to spurn 
me from her presence. These things, reverend father, 
are strange, portentous, unnatural, and befall not in the 
current of mortal affairs, but are symptomatic of sorcery 
and fascination. So that having given to your reverence 
a perfect, simple, and plain account of all that I know 
concerning this matter, I leave it to your wisdom to solve 
what may be found soluble in the same, it being my pur- 
pose to-morrow, with the peep of dawn, to set forward 
towards Edinburgh.” 

“ I grieve to be an interruption to your designs, Sir 
Knight,” said the Monk, “ but that purpose of thine may 
hardly be fulfilled.” 

How, reverend father !” said the Knight, with an air 
of the utmost surprise ; “ if what you say respects my 
departure, understand that it must be, for I have so re- 
solved it.” 

Sir Knight,” reiterated the Sub-Prior, “ I must once 
more repeat, this cannot be, until the Abbot’s pleasure be 
known in the matter.” 

“ Reverend Sir,” said the Knight, drawing himself up 
with great dignity, “ I desire my hearty and thankful 
commendations to the Abbot ; but in this matter I have 
nothing to do with his reverend pleasure, designing only 
to consult my own.” 

“ Pardon me,” said the Sub-Prior ; ‘‘ the Lord Abbot 
hath in this matter a voice potential.” 

9 * VOL. II. 


102 


THE MONASTERY. 


Sir Piercie Shafton’s colour began to rise — “ I mar- 
vel,” he said, “ to hear your reverence talk thus — What ! 
will you, for the imagined death of a rude low-born 
frampler and wrangler, venture to impinge upon the lib- 
erty of the kinsman of the house of Piercie ?” 

“ Sir Knight,” returned the Sub-Prior, civilly, “ your 
high lineage and your kindling anger will avail you 
nothing in this matter — You shall not come here to seek 
a shelter, and then spill our blood as if it were water.” 

“i tell you,” said the Knight,. “ once more, as I have 
told you already, that there was no blood spilled but mine 
own !” 

“ That remains to be proved,” replied the Sub-Prior ; 
“ we of the community of St. Mary’s of Kennaquhair, 
use not to take fairy tales in exchange for the lives of our 
liege vassals.” 

“ W^e of the house of Piercie,” answered Shafton, 
“ brook neither threats nor restraint — I say I will travel 
to-morrow, happen what may !” 

“ And I,” answered the Sub-Prior, in the same tone 
of determination, “ say that I will break your journey, 
come what may !” 

“ Who shall gainsay me,” said the Knight, “ if 1 
make my way by force 

“ You will judge wisely to think ere you make such 
an attempt,” answered the Monk, with composure ; 
“ there are men enough in the Halidome to vindicate its 
rights over those who dare to infringe them.” 

“ My cousin of Northumberland will know how to 
revenge this usage to a beloved kinsman so near to his 
blood,” said the Englishman. 

“ The Lord Abbot will know how to protect the rights of 
his territory, both with the temporal and spiritual sword,” 
said the Monk. “ Besides, consider, were we to send you 
to your kinsman at Alnwick or Warkworth to-morrow, he 
dare do nothing but transmit you in fetters to the Queen 
of England. Bethink, Sir Knight, that you stand on slip- 
pery ground, and will act most wisely in reconciling yourself 
to be a prisoner in this place until the Abbot shall decide 


THE MONASTERY. 


103 


the matter. There are armed men enow to countervail 
all your efforts at escape. Let patience and resignation 
therefore arm you to a necessary submission.” 

So saying, he clapped his hands, and called aloud. 
Edward entered, accompanied hy two young men who 
had already joined him, and were well armed. 

“ Edward,” said the Sub-Prior, “ you will supply 
the English knight here in this spence with suitable food 
and accommodation for the night, treating him with as 
much kindness as if nothing had happened between you. 
But you will place a sufficient guard, and look carefully 
that he make not his escape. Should he attempt to 
break forth, resist him to the death ; but in no other case 
harm a hair of his head, as you shall be answerable.” 

Edward Glendinning replied, — “ That 1 may obey 
your commands, reverend sir, I will not again offer my- 
self to this person’s presence ; for shame it were to me 
to break the peace of the Halidome, but not less shame 
to leave my brother’s death unavenged.” 

As he spoke, his lips grew livid, the blood forsook his 
cheek, and he was about to leave the apartment, when 
the Sub-Prior recalled him, and said in a solemn tone, — 
“ Edward, I have known you from infancy — 1 have done 
what lay within my reach to be of use to you — I say 
nothing of what you owe to me as the representative of 
your spiritual superior — I say nothing of the duty from 
the vassal to the Sub-Prior — But F ather Eustace expects 
from' the pupil whom he has nurtured — he expects from 
Edward Glendinning, that he will not, by any deed of 
sudden violence, however justified in his own mind by 
the provocation, break through the respect due to public 
justice, or that which he has an especial right to claim 
from him.” 

“ Fear nothing, my reverend father, for so in an 
hundred senses may I well term you,” said the young 
man ; “ fear not, 1 would say, that I will in any thing 
diminish the respect I owe to the venerable community 
by whom we have so long been protected, far less that 
r will do aught which can be personally less than repsect- 


104 


THE MOTfASTERY. 


fill to you. But the blood of my brother must not cry 
for vengeance in vain — your Reverence knows our Bor- 
der creed.” 

“ ‘ Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will re- 
quite it,’ ” answered the Monk. “ The heathenish cus- 
tom of deadly feud which prevails in this land, through 
which each man seeks vengeance at his own hand when 
the death of a friend or kinsman has chanced, hath al- 
ready deluged our vales with the blood of Scottish men.^ 
spilled by the hands of countrymen and kindred. It 
were endless to count up the fatal results. On the East- 
ern Border, the Homes are at feud with the Swintons 
and Cockburns ; in our Middle Marches, the Scotts and 
Kerrs have spilled as much brave blood in domestic feud 
as might have fought a pitched field in England, could 
they have but forgiven and forgotten a casual rencounter 
that placed their names in opposition to each other. On 
the West frontier, the Johnstones are at war with the Max- 
wells, the Jardines with the Bells, drawing with them the 
flower of the country, which should place their breasts as a 
bulwark against England, into private and bloody warfare, 
of which it is the only end to waste and impair the forces 
of the country, already divided in itself. Do not, my 
dear son Edward, permit this bloody prejudice to master 
your mind. I cannot ask you to think of the crime sup- 
posed as if the blood spilled had been less dear to you — 
Alas ! I know that is impossible. But 1 do require you, 
in proportion to your interest in the supposed sufferer, 
(for as yet the whole is matter of supposition,) to bear on 
your mind the evidence on which the guilt of the accused 
person must be tried. He bath spoken with me, and I 
confess his tale is so extraordinary, that I should have, 
without a moment’s hesitation, rejected it as incredible, 
but that an affair which chanced to myself in this very 
glen — More of that another time — Suffice it for the pres- 
<est to say, that from what I have myself experienced, I 
deem it possible, that, extraordinary as Sir Piercie Shaf- 
(on’s story may seem, I hold it not utterly impossible.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


105 


“ Father,’’ said Edward Glendinning, when he saw 
that his preceptor paused, unwilling farther to explain 
upon what grounds he was inclined to give a certain de- 
gree of credit to Sir Piercie Shafion’s story, while he 
admitted it as improbable — “ Father to me you have 
been in every sense. You know that my hand grasped 
more readily to the book than to the sword ; and that I 
lacked utterly the ready and bold spirit which distinguish- 
ed” Here his voice faltered, and he paused for a 

moment, and then went on with resolution and rapidity 
— “ I would say, that I was unequal to Halbert in promp- 
titude of heart and of hand ; but Halbert is gone, and 
I stand his representative and that of my father — his 
successor in all his rights”(while he said this his eyes 
shot fire,)“and bound to assert and maintain them as he 
would have done — therefore I am a changed man, in- 
creased in courage as in my rights and pretensions. 
And, reverend father, respectfully, but plainly and firmly 
do I say, his blood, if it has been shed by this man, shall 
be atoned — Halbert shall not sleep neglected in his lone- 
ly grave, as if with him the spirit of my father had ceased 
for ever. His blood flows in my veins, and while his has 
been poured forth unrequited, mine will permit me no rest. 
My poverty and meanness of rank shall not avail the lordly 
murderer. My calm nature and peaceful studies shall 
not be his protection. Even the obligations, holy father, 
which 1 acknowledge to you, shall not be his protection. 
I wait with patience the judgment of the Abbot and 
Chapter, for the slaughter of one of their most anciently 
descended vassals. If they do right to my brother’s 
memory, it is well. But mark me, father, if they shall 
fail in rendering me that justice, I bear a heart and a 
hand which, though I love not such extremities, are capa- 
ble of remedying such an error. He who takes up my 
brother’s succession must avenge his death.” 

The Monk perceived with surprise, that Edward, with 
his extreme diffidence, humility, and obedient assiduity, 
for such were his general characteristics, had still boiling 
in his veins the wild principles of those from whom he 


106 


THE MONASTERY* 


was descended, and by whom he was surrounded. His 
eyes sparkled, his frame was agitated, and the extrem- 
ity of his desire of vengeance seemed to give a vehe- 
mence to his manner resembling the restlessness of joy. 

“ May God help us,” said Father Eustace, “ for, frail 
wretches as we are, we cannot help ourselves under sud- 
den and strong temptation. — Edward, I will rely on your 
word that you do nothing rashly.” 

“ That will I not,” said Edward, — “ that, my better 
than father, I surely will not. But the blood of my 
brother — the tears of my mother — and — and — and of 
Mary Avenel, shall not be shed in vain. I will not de- 
ceive you, father — if this Piercie Shafton hath slain my 
brother, he dies, if the whole blood of the whole house 
of Piercie were in his veins.” 

There was a deep and solemn determination in the ut- 
terance of Edward Glendinning, expressive of a rooted 
resolution. The Suh-Prior sighed deeply, and for the 
moment yielded to circumstances, and urged the acqui- 
escence of his pupil no farther. He commanded lights 
to be placed in the lower chamber, which for a time he 
paced in silence. 

A thousand ideas, and even differing principles, de- 
bated with each other in his bosom. He greatly doubt- 
ed the English knight’s account of the duel, and of what 
had followed it. Yet the extraordinary and supernatural 
circumstances which had befallen the Sacristan and 
himself in that very glen, prevented him from being ab- 
solutely incredulous on the score of the wonderful wound 
and recovery of Sir Piercie Shafton, and prevented him 
from at once condemning as impossible that which was 
altogether improbable. Then he was at a loss how to 
control the fraternal affections of Edward, with respect 
to whom he felt something like the keeper of a wild 
animal, a lion’s whelp or tiger’s cub, wbich be has held 
under his command from infancy, but which, when grown 
to maturity, on some sudden provocation displays his fangs 
and talons, erects his crest, resumes his savage nature, and 
bids defiance at once to his keeper and to all mankind. 


THE MONASTERY. 


107 


How to restrain and mitigate an ire which the univer- 
sal example of the times rendered deadly and inveterate, 
was sufficient cause of anxiety to Father Eustace. But 
he had also to consider the situation of his community, 
dishonoured and degraded by submitting to suffer the 
slaughter of a vassal to pass unavenged ; a circumstance 
which of itself might in those difficult times have afforded 
pretext for a revolt among their wavering adherents, or, 
on the other hand, exposed the community to imminent 
danger, should they proceed against a subject of England 
of high degree, connected with the house of Northum- 
berland and other northern families of high rank, who, as 
they possessed the means, could not be supposed to lack 
inclination to wreak upon the patrimony of Saint Mary 
of Kennaquhair, any violence which might be offered to 
their kinsman. 

In either case, the Sub-Prior well knew that the osten- 
sible cause of feud, insurrection, or incursion, being once 
afforded, the case would not be ruled either by reason 
or by evidence ; and he groaned in spirit when, upon 
counting up the chances which arose in this ambiguous 
dilemma, he found he had only a choice of difficulties. 
He was a monk, but he felt also as a man, indignant at 
the supposed slaughter of young Glendinning by one 
skilful in all the practice of arms, in which the vassal of 
the Monastery was most likely to be deficient ; and to 
aid the resentment which he felt for the loss of a youth, 
whom he had known from infancy, came in full force the 
sense of dishonour arising to his community from passing 
over so gross an insult unavenged. Then the light in 
which it might be viewed by those who at present presided 
in the stormy Court of Scotland, attached as they were 
to the reformation, and allied by common faith and com- 
mon interest with Queen Elizabeth, was a formidable 
subject of apprehension. The Sub-Prior well knew how 
they lusted after the revenues of the church, (to express 
it in the ordinary phrase of the religious of the time) 
and how readily they would grasp at such a pretext for 
encroaching on those of Saint Mary’s as would be afford- 


108 


THE MONASTERY. 


ed by the suffering to pass unpunished the death of a 
native Scottishmanby a Catholic Englishman, a rebel to 
Queen Elizabeth. 

On the other hand, to deliver up to England, or, which 
was nearly the same thing, to the Scottish administration, 
an English knight leagued with the Piercie by kindred 
and political intrigue, a faithful follower of the Catholic 
Church, who had fled to the Halidome for protection, was, 
in the estirnation of the Sub-Prior, an act most unworthy 
in itself, and meriting the malediction of heaven, besides 
being, moreover, fraught with great temporal risk. If 
the government of Scotland was now almost entirely in 
the hands of the Protestant party, the Queen was still a 
Catholic, and there was no knowing when, amid the sud- 
den changes which agitated that tumultuous country, she 
might find herself at the head of her own affairs, and 
able to protect those of her own faith. Then if the Court 
of England and its Queen were zealously Protestant, 
the northern counties, whose friendship or enmity were 
of most consequence in the first instance to the com- 
munity of Saint Mary’s, contained many Catholics, the 
heads of whom w ere able, and must be supposed willing, 
to avenge any injury suffered by Sir Piercie Shafton. 

On either side, the Sub-Prior, thinking, according to 
his sense of duty, most anxiously for the safety and wel- 
fare of his Monastery, saw the greatest risk of damage, 
blame, inroad, and confiscation. The only course on 
which he could determine was to stand by the helm like 
a resolute pilot, watch every contingence, do his best to 
weather each reef and shoal, and commit the rest to 
heaven and his patroness. 

As he left the apartment, the Knight called after him, 
beseeching he would order his trunk-mails to be sent 
into his apartment, understanding he was to be guarded 
there for the night, as he wished to make some alteration 
in his apparel.*^ 

“ Ay, ay,” said the Monk, muttering as he wrentup the 
winding stair, “ carry him his trumpery with all despatch. 
Alas ! that man, with so many noble objects of pursuit, 


THE MONASTERY. 


10& 


will amuse himself like a jack-an ape, with a laced 
jerkin and a cap and bells ! — 1 must now to the melan- 
choly work of consoling that which is well nigh inconso- 
lable, a mother weeping for her first-born.” 

Advancing, after a gentle knock, into the apartment 
of the women, he found that Mary Avenel had retired 
to bed, extremely indisposed, and that Dame Glendin- 
ning and Tibb were indulging their sorrows by the side 
of a decaying fire, and by the light of a small iron lamp, 
or cruise, as it was termed. Poor Elspeth’s apron was 
thrown over her head, and bitterly did she sob and weep 
for “ her beautiful, her brave, — the very image of her 
dear Simon Glendinning, the stay of her widowhood, and 
the support of her old age.” 

The faithful Tibb echoed her complaints, and, more 
violently clamorous, made deep promises of revenge on 
Sir Piercie Shafton, “ if there were a man left in the 
south that could draw a whinger, or a woman that could 
thraw a rape.” The presence of the Sub-Prior imposed 
silence on these clamours. He sat down by the unfortu- 
nate mother, and essayed, by such topics as his religion 
and reason suggested, to interrupt the current of Dame 
Glendinning’s feelings ; but the attempt was in vain. She 
listened, indeed, with some little interest, while he pledg- 
ed his word and his influence with the Abbot, that the fam- 
ily which had lost their eldest-born by means of a guest 
received at his command, should experience particular 
protection at the hands of the community ; and that the 
fief which belonged to Simon Glendinning should, with 
extended bounds and added privileges, be conferred on 
Edward. 

But it was only for a very brief space that the moth- 
er’s sobs were apparently softer, and her grief more mild. 
She soon blamed herself for casting a moment’s thought 
upon world’s gear, while poor Halbert was lying stretch- 
ed in his bloody shirt. The Suh-Prior was not more 
fortunate, when he promised that Halhert’s body “ should 
10 VOL. II. 


no 


THE MONASTERY. 


be removed to hallowed giound, and his soul secured 
by the prayers of the church in his behalf.” 

Grief would have its natural course, and the voice of 
the comforter was wasted in vain. 


CHAPTER X. 

He is at liberty, I have ventured for him ! 

if the law 

Find and condemn me for’t, some living wenches, 
Some honest-hearted maids will sing my dirge, 
And tell to memory my death was noble, 

Dj'ing almost a martyr. 

Two Noble Kinsmen. 


The Sub-Prior of Saint Mary’s, in taking his depart- 
ure from the spence in which Sir Piercie Shafton was 
confined, and in which some preparations were made for 
his passing the night as the room which might be most 
conveniently guarded, left more than one perplexed per- 
son behind him. Tliere was connected with this cham- 
ber, and opening into it, a small outshot, or projecting 
part of the building, occupied by a little sleeping apart- 
ment, which upon ordinary occasions was that of Mary 
Avenel, and which, in the unusual number of guests who 
had come to the tower on the former evening, had also 
accommodated Mysie Happer, the Miller’s daughter ; 
for anciently, as w-ell as in the present day, a Scottish 
house was ahvays rather too narrow and limited for the 
extent of the owner’s hospitality, and some shift and con- 
trivance w'as necessary, upon any unusual occasion, to in- 
sure the accommodation of all the guests. 

The fatal new^s of Halbert Glendlnning’s death had 
thrown all former arrangements into confusion. Mary 
Avenel, whose case required immediate attention, liad 
been transported into the apartment hitherto occupied 


THE MOXASTERT. 


Ill 


Dy Halbert and his brother, as the latter proposed to 
watch all night, in order to prevent the escape of the 
prisoner. Poor Mysie had been altogether overlooked, 
and had naturally enough betaken herself to the little 
apartment which she had hitherto occupied, ignorant 
that the spence, through which lay the only access to it, 
was to be the sleeping chamber of Sir Piercie Shafton. 
The measures taken for securing him there had been so 
sudden, that she was not aware of it, until she found that 
the other females had been removed from the spence by 
the Sub-Prior’s direction, and having once missed the op- 
portunity of retreating along with them, bashfulness, and 
the high respect which she was taught to bear to the 
monks, prevented her venturing forth alone, and intrud- 
ing herself on the presence of Father Eustace, while in 
secret conference with the Southron. There ap- 
peared no remedy but to wait till their interview was 
over ; and, as the door was thin, and did not shut very 
closely, she could hear every word which passed betwixt 
them. 

It thus happened, that without any intended intrusion 
on her part, she became privy to the whole conversation 
of the Sub -Prior and the English knight, and could also 
observe from the window of her little retreat, that more 
than one of the young men summoned by Edward arriv- 
ed successively at the tower. These circumstances led 
her to entertain most serious apprehension that the life of 
Sir Piercie Shafton was in great and instant peril. 

Woman is naturally compassionate, and not less wil- 
lingly so when youth and fair features are on the side of 
him who claims her sympathy. The handsome pres- 
ence, elaborate dress and address of Sir Piercie Shafton, 
which had failed to make any favourable impression on 
the grave and lofty character of Mary Avenel, had com- 
pletely dazzled and bewildered the poor Maid of the 
Mill. The Knight had perceived this result, and, flatter- 
ed by seeing that his merit was not universally under 
rated, he had bestowed on Mysie a good deal more ot 
his courtesy than in his opinion her rank warranted. It 


112 


THE MONASTERY* 


was not cast away, but received with a devout sense of 
his condescension, and with gratitude for his personal no- 
tice, which, joined to her fears for his safety, and the 
natural tenderness of her disposition, began to make wild 
work in her heart. 

“ To be sure it was very wrong in him to slay Halbert 
Glendinning,” (it was thus she argued the case with her- 
self,) “ but then he was a gentleman born, and a soldier, 
and so gentle and courteous withal, that she was sure the 
quarrel had been all of young Glendinning’s own seek- 
ing ; for it was well known that both these lads were so 
taken up with that Mary Avenel, that they never looked 
at another lass in the Halidome, more than if they were 
of a different degree. And then Halbert’s dress was as 
clownish as his manners were haughty ; and this poor 
young gentleman, (who was habited like any prince,) 
banished from his own land, was first drawn into a quarrel 
by a rude brangler, and then persecuted and like to be 
put to death by his kin and allies.” 

Mysie wept bitterly at the thought, and then her heart 
rising against such cruelty and oppression to a defence- 
less stranger, who dressed with so much skill, and spoke 
with so much grace, she began to consider whether she 
could not render him some assistance in his extremity. 

Her mind was now entirely altered from its original 
purpose. At first her only anxiety had been to find the 
means of escaping from the interior apartment, without 
being noticed by any one ; but now she began to think 
that heaven had placed her there for the safety and pro- 
tection of the persecuted stranger. She was of a sim- 
ple and affectionate, but at the same time an alert and 
enterprizing character, possessing more than female 
strength of body, and more than female courage, though 
with feelings as capable of being bewildered with gal- 
lantry of dress and language, as a fine gentleman of any 
generation would have desired to exercise his talents up- 
on. “ I will save him,” she thought, “ that is the first 
thing to be resolved — and then I wonder what he will 
say to the poor Miller’s maiden, that has done for him 


THE MONASTERY. 


113 


what all the dainty dames in London or Holyrood would 
have been afraid to venture upon.” 

Prudence began to pull her sleeve as she indulged 
speculations so hazardous, and hinted to her that the 
warmer Sir Piercie Shafton’s gratitude might prove, it 
was the more likely to be fraught with danger to his ben- 
efactress. Alas ! poor Prudence, thou mayst say with 
our moral teacher, 

“ I preach for ever, but I preach in vain.'' 

The Miller’s maiden, while you pour your warning 
into her unwilling bosom, has glanced her eye on the 
small mirror by which she has placed her little lamp, 
and it returns to her a countenance and eyes, pretty and 
sparkling at all times, but ennobled at present with the 
energy of expression proper to those who have dared to 
form, and stand prepared to execute, deeds of generous 
audacity. 

‘‘ Will these features — will these eyes, joined to the ben- 
efit I am about to confer upon Sir Piercie Shafton,do noth- 
ing towards removing the distance of rank between us?” 

Such w'as the question which female vanity asked of 
fancy : and though even fancy dared not answer in a 
ready affirmative, a middle conclusion was adopted — 
“ Let me first succour the gallant youth, and trust to 
fortune for the rest.” 

Banishing, therefore, from her mind every thing that 
was personal to herself, the rash but generous girl turned 
her whole thoughts to the means of executing this en- 
terprize. 

The difficulties which interposed were of no ordinary 
nature. The vengeance of the men of that country, in 
cases of deadly feud, that is, in cases of a quarrel excited 
by the slaughter of any of their relations, was one of 
their most marked characteristics ; and Edward, how- 
ever gentle in other respects, was so fond of his brother, 
that there could be no doubt that he would be as signal 
in his revenge as the customs of the country authorized 
10 * VOL, II. 


114 


THE MOXASTERY. 


There were to be passed the inner door of the apart- 
ment, the two gates of the tower itself, and the gate 
of the court-yard, ere the prisoner was at liberty ; and 
then a guide and means of flight were to be provided, 
otherwise ultimate escape was impossible. But where 
the will of woman is strongly bent on the accomplishment 
of such a purpose, her wit is seldom baffled by difficul- 
ties, however embarrassing. 

The Sub-Prior had not long left the apartment, ere 
Mysie had devised a scheme for Sir Piercie Shafton’s 
freedom, daring indeed, but likely to be successful, if 
dexterously conducted. It was necessary, however, that 
she should remain where she was till so late an hour, that 
all in the tower should have betaken themselves to re- 
pose, excepting those whose duty made them watchers. 
The interval she employed in observing the movements 
of the person in whose service she was thus boldly a vol- 
unteer. 

She could hear Sir Piercie Shafton pace the floor to 
and fro, in reflection doubtless on his own untoward fate 
and precarious situation. By and by she heard him 
making a rustling among his trunks, which agreeably to 
the order of the Sub-Prior, had been placed in the 
apartment to which he was confined, and which he was 
probably amusing more melancholy thoughts by exam- 
ining and arranging. Then she could hear him resume 
his walk through the room, and, as if his spirits had been 
somewhat relieved and elevated by the survey of his 
wardrobe, she could distinguish that at one turn he half 
recited a sonnet, at another half whistled a galliard, and 
at the third hummed a saraband. At length she could 
understand that he extended himself on the temporary 
couch which had been allotted to him, after muttering his 
prayers hastily, and in a short time she concluded he must 
be fast asleep. 

She employed the moments which intervened in con- 
sidering her enterprize under every different aspect ; and 
dangerous as it was, the steady review which she took 
of the various perils accompanying her purpose, furnish- 


THE MOJTASTERY. 


115 


ed her with plausible devices for obviating them. Love 
and generous compassion, which give singly such power- 
ful impulse to the female heart, were in this case united, 
and championed her to the last extremity of hazard. 

It was an hour past midnight. All in the tower slept 
soundly but those who had undertaken to guard the 
English prisoner ; or if sorrow and suffering drove sleep 
from the bed of Dame Glendinning and her foster-daugh- 
er, they w^ere too much wrapt in their own griefs to at- 
tend to external sounds. The means of striking light 
were at hand in the small apartment, and thus the Mil- 
ler’s maiden was enabled to light and trim a small lamp. 
With a trembling step and throbbing heart, she undid the 
door which separated her from the apartment in which 
the Southron knight was confined, and almost flinched 
from her fixed purpose, when she found herself in the 
same room with the sleeping prisoner. She scarcely trust- 
ed herself to look upon him, as he lay wrapped in his 
cloak, and fast asleep upon the pallet bed, but turned 
her eyes away while she gently pulled his mantle with no 
more force than was just ecjual to awaken him. He 
moved not until she had twitched his cloak a second and 
a third lime, and then at length looking up, was about 
to make an exclamation in the suddenness of his surprise. 

Mysie’s bashfulness was conquered by her fear. She 
placed her fingers on her lips, in token that he must ob- 
serve the most strict silence, and then pointed to the 
door to intimate that it w^as watched. 

Sir Piercie Shafton now collected himself, and sat 
upright on his couch. He gazed with surprise on the 
graceful figure of the young woman who stood before 
him ; her well-formed person, her flowing hair, and the 
outline of her features, showed dimly, and yet to advan- 
tage, by the partial and feeble light which she held in her 
hand. The romantic imagination of the gallant would 
soon have coined some compliment proper for the occa- 
sion, but Mysie left him not time. 

‘‘ I come,” she said, “ to save your life, which is 
else in great peril — if you answer me, speak as low as 


116 


THE MOXASTERY* 


you can, for they have sentinelled your door with armed 
men.” 

“ Comeliestof miller’s daughters,” answered Sir Pier- 
cie, who by this time was sitting upright on his couch, 
“ dread nothing for my safety. Credit me, that, as, in 
very truth, I have not spilled the red puddle (which these 
\illagios call the blood) of their most uncivil relation, so 
I am under no apprehension whatever for the issue of 
this restraint, seeing that it cannot but be harmless to me. 
Natheless, to thee, O most Molendinar beauty, I return 
the thanks which thy courtesy may justly claim.” 

“ Nay but. Sir Knight,” answered the maiden, in a 
whisper as low as it was tremulous ; “ I deserve no 
thanks unless you will act by my counsel. Edward 
Glendinning hath sent for Dan of the Howlet-hirst, and 
young Adie of Aikenshaw, and they are come with three 
men more, and with bow, and jack, and spear, and I 
heard them say to each other, and to Edward, as they 
alighted in the court, that they would have amends for 
the death of their kinsman, if the Monk’s cowl should 
smoke for it — And the vassals are so wilful now, that the 
Abbot himself dare not control them, for fear they turn 
heretics, and refuse to pay their feu-duties.” 

“ In faith,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “ it may be a 
shrewd temptation, and perchance the monks may rid 
themselves of trouble and cumber, by handing me over 
the march to Sir John Foster or Lord Hunsdon, the 
English wardens, and so make peace with their vassals 
and with England at once. Fairest Molinara, I will for 
once walk by thy rede, and if thou dost contrive to 
extricate me from this vile kennel, I will so celebrate thy 
wit and beauty, that the Baker’s nymph of Raphael 
d’Urbino shall seem but a gipsy in comparison of my 
Molinara.” 

“ I pray you, then, be silent,” said the Miller’s daugh- 
ter ; “ for if your speech betrays that you are awake, 
my scheme fails utterly, and it is Heaven’s mercy and 
Our Lady’s that we are not already overheard and dis- 
covered.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


117 


“ I am silent,” replied the Southron, “ even as the 
starless night — but yet — if this contrivance of thine should 
endanger thy safety, fair and no less kind than fair dam- 
sel, it were utterly unworthy of me to accept it at thy 
hand.” 

“ Do not think of me,” said Mysie, hastily ; “lam 
safe — I will take thought for myself, if I once saw you 
out of this dangerous dwelling — if you would provide 
yourself with any part of your apparel or goods, lose no 
time.” 

The Knight did, however, lose some time, ere he could 
settle in his own mind what to take and what to abandon 
of his wardrobe, each article of which'seemed endeared 
to him by recollection of the feasts and revels at which 
it had been exhibited. For some little while Mysie left 
him to make his selections at leisure, for she herself had 
also some preparations to make for flight. But when, 
returning from the chamber into which she had retired, 
with a small bundle in her hand, she found him still in- 
decisive, she insisted in plain terms, that he should either 
make up his baggage for the enterprize, or give it up 
entirely. Thus urged, the disconsolate knight hastily 
made up a few clothes into a bundle, regarded his trunk- 
mails with a mute expression of parting sorrow, and inti- 
mated his readiness to wail upon his kind guide. 

She led the way to the door of the apartment, having 
first carefully extinguished her lamp, and motioning to 
the Knight to stand close behind her, tapped once or 
twice at the door. She was at length answered by Ed- 
ward Glendinning, who demanded to know who knocked 
within, and what was desired. 

“ Speak low,” said Mysie Happer, “or you will awaken 
the English knight. It is I, Mysie Happer, who knock 
— I wish to get out — you have locked me up, and I was 
obliged to wait till the Southron slept.” 

“ Locked you up !” replied Edward, in surprise. 

“ Yes,” answered the Miller’s daughter, “you have 
locked me up into this room — I was in Mary Avenel’s 
sleeping apartment.” 


4 


]18 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ And can you not remain there till morning,” replied 
Edward, “ since it has so chanced 

“ What !” said the Miller’s daughter, in a tone of of- 
fended delicacy, “ I remain here a moment longer than 
I can get out without discovery ! — I would not, for all 
the Halidome of St. Mary’s remain a minute longer in 
the neighbourhood of a man’s apartment than I can help 
it — For whom, or for what do you hold me ? I promise 
you, my father’s daughter has been better brought up 
than to put in peril her good name.” 

“ Come forth, then, and get to thy chamber in silence,” 
said Edward. 

So saying, he undid the bolt. The staircase without 
was in utter darkness, as Mysie had before ascertained. 
So soon as she stept out, she took hold of Edward as if 
to support herself, thus interposing her person betwixt 
him and Sir Piercie Shafton, by whom she was closely 
followed. Thus screened from observation, the English- 
man slipped past on tiptoe, unshod and in silence, while 
the damsel complained to Edward that she wanted a light. 

“ I cannot get you a light,” said he, “ for I cannot 
leave this post ; but there is fire below.” 

“ I will sit below till morning,” said the Maid of the 
Mill ; and tripping down stairs, heard Edward bolt and 
bar the door of the now tenantless apartment with vain 
caution. 

At the foot of the stair which she descended, she found 
the object of her care waiting her farther directions. She 
recommended to him the most absolute silence, wdiich, 
for once in his life, he seemed not unwilling to observe, 
conducted him with as much caution as if he were walk- 
ing on cracked ice, to a dark recess, used for depositing 
wood, and instructed him to ensconce himself behind the 
faggots. She herself lighted her lamp once more at the 
kitchen-fire, and took her distaff and spindle, that she 
might not seem to be unemployed, in case any one came 
into the apartment. From time to time, however, she 
stole towards the window on tiptoe, to catch the first 
glance of the dawn, for the farther prosecution of her ad- 


THE MONASTERY. 


119 


venturous project. At length she saw, to her great joy, 
the first peep of the morning brighten upon the grey clouds 
of the east, and clasping her hands together, thanked 
Our Lady for the sight, and implored protection during 
the remainder of her enterprize. Ere she had finished 
her prayer, she started at feeling a man’s arm across her 
shoulder, while a rough voice spoke in her ear — “What! 
menseful Mysie of the Mill so soon at her prayers ? — now, 
benison on the bonny eyes that open so early ! — I’ll have 
a kiss for good-morrow’s sake.” 

Dan of the Howlet-hirst, for he was the gallant who 
paid Mysie this compliment, suited the action with the 
word, and the action, as is usual in such cases of rustic 
gallantry, was rewarded with a cuff, which Dan received 
as a fine gentleman receives a tap with a fan, but which, 
delivered by the energetic arm of the Miller’s maiden, 
would have certainly astonished a less robust gallant. 

“ How now. Sir Coxcomb !” said she, “and must you 
be away from your guard over the English knight, to 
plague quiet folk with your horse-tricks !” 

“ Truly you are mistaken, pretty Mysie,” said the 
clown, “ for I have not yet relieved Edward at his post ; 
and were it not a shame to let him stay any longer, by 
my faith, I could find it in my heart not to quit you these 
two hours.” 

“ O, you have hours and hours enough to see any one,” 
said Mysie ; “ but you must think of the distress of the 
household even now, and get Edward to sleep for awhile, 
for he has kept watch this whole night.” 

“ I will have another kiss first,” answered Dan of the 
Howlet-hirst. 

But iMysie was now on her guard, and conscious per- 
haps of the vicinity of the wood-hole, offered such stren- 
uous resistance, that the swain cursed the nymph’s bad 
humour with very unpastoral phrase and emphasis, and 
ran up stairs to relieve the guard of his comrade. Steal- 
ing to the door, she heard the new sentinel hold a brief 
conversation with Edward, after which the latter with- 
drew, and the former entered upon the duties of his watch. 


120 


THE monastery. 


Mysie suffered him to walk there a little while undis- 
turbed, until the dawning became more general, by which 
time she supposed he might have digested her coyness, 
and then presenting herself before the watchful sentinel, 
demanded of him “ the keys of the outer tower, and of 
the court-yard gate.” 

“ And for what purpose answered the warder. 

“ To milk the cows, and drive them out to their pas- 
ture,” said Mysie ; “ you would not have the poor beasts 
kept in the byre a’ morning, and the family in such dis- 
tress, that there isna ane fit to do a turn but the byre- 
woman and myself?” 

“ And where is the byre-woman ?” said Dan. 

“ Sitting with me in the Kitchen, in case these distress- 
ed folk want any thing.” 

“ There are the keys, then, Mysie Dorts,” said the 
sentinel. 

“ Many thanks, Dan Ne’er-do-weel,” answered the 
Maid of the Mill, and escaped down stairs in a moment. 

To hasten to the wood-hole, and there to robe the 
English knight in a short-gown and petticoat, which she 
had provided for the purpose, was the work of another 
moment. She then undid the gates of the tower, and 
made towards the byre, or cow-house, which stood in 
one corner of the court-yard. Sir Piercie Shafton re- 
monstrated against the delay which this would occasion. 

“ Fair and generous Molinara,” he said, ‘‘ had we 
not better undo the outward gate, and make the best of 
our way hence, even like a pair of sea-mews who make 
towards shelter of the rocks as the storm waxes high ?” 

“ We must drive out the cows first,” said Mysie, “ for 
a sin it were to spoil the poor widow’s cattle, both for her 
sake and the poor beasts’ own ; and I have no mind any 
one shall leave the tower in a hurry to follow us. Be- 
sides, you must have your horse, for you will need a fleet 
one ere all be done.” 

So saying, she locked and double-locked both the in- 
ward and outward door of the tower, proceeded to the 
cow-house, turned out the cattle, and giving the Knight 


THE MONASTERY. 


121 


his own horse to lead, drove them before her out at the 
court-yard gate, intending to return for her own palfrey. 
But the noise attending the first operation caught the 
wakeful attention of Edward, who, starting to the barti- 
zan, called to know what the matter was. 

Mysie answered with great readiness, that “ she w^as 
driving out the cows, for that they would be spoiled for 
want of looking to.” 

“ I thank thee, kind maiden,” said Edward — ‘‘ and 
yet,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “ what damsel 
is that thou hast with thee 

Mysie was about to answer, when Sir Piercie Shafton, 
who apparently did not desire that the great work of his 
liberation should be executed without the interposition of 
his own ingenuity, exclaimed from beneath, “ 1 am she, 
O most bucolical juvenal, under whose charge are plac- 
ed the milky mothers of the herd.” 

“ Hell and darkness !” exclaimed Edw^ard, in a trans- 
port of fury and astonishment, “ it is Piercie Shafton — 
What ! treason ! treason ! — ho ! — Dan — Jasper — Martin 
— the villain escapes !” 

“ To horse ! To horse !” cried Mysie, and in an in- 
stant mounted behind the Knight, who was already in 
the saddle. 

Edward caught up a cross-bow, and let fly a bolt, 
which whistled so near Mysie’s ear, that she called to her 
companion, — “ Spur — spur. Sir Knight ! — the next will 
not miss us. — Had it been Halbert instead of Edward 
wdio bent that bow, we had been dead.” 

The Knight pressed his horse, which dashed past the 
cows, and down the knoll on which the tower was situ- 
ated. Then taking the road down the valley, the gallant 
animal, reckless of its double burden, soon conveyed 
them out of hearing of the tumult and alarm with which 
their departure filled the tower of Glendearg. 

Thus it strangely happened, that two men were flying 
in different directions at the same time, each accused of 
being the other’s murderer. 

11 VOL. II. 


122 


THE MONASTERY* 


CHAPTER XL 

Sure he cannot 

Be so unmanly as to leave me here ; 

If he do, maids will not so easily 
Trust men again. 

The Two Noble Kintmen. 

The Knight continued to keep the good horse at a pace 
as quick as the road permitted, until they had cleared the 
valley of Glendearg, and entered upon the broad dale 
of the Tweed, which now rolled before them in crystal 
beauty, displaying on its opposite bank the huge grey 
Monastery of St. Mary’s, whose towers and pinnacles 
were scarce yet touched by the newly-risen sun, so 
deeply the edifice lies shrouded under the mountains 
wjiich rise to the southward. 

Turning to the left, the Knight continued his road down 
the northern bank of the river, until they arrived nearly 
opposite to the weir, or dam-dyke, where Father Philip 
concluded his extraordinary aquatic excursion. 

Sir Piercie Shafton, whose brain seldom admitted more 
than one idea at a time, had hitherto pushed forward, 
without very distinctly considering where he was going. 
But the sight of the Monastery so near to him, remind- 
ed him that he was still on dangerous ground, and that 
he must necessarily provide for his safety by'choosing 
some settled plan of escape. The situation of his guide 
and deliverer also occurred to him ; for he was far from 
being either selfish or ungrateful. He listened, and dis- 
covered that the Miller’s daughter was sobbing and weep- 
ing bitterly as she rested her head on his shoulder. 

“ What ails thee,” he said, ‘‘ my generous Molinara ^ 
— is there aught that Piercie Shafton can do, which may 
show his gratitude to his deliverer Mysie pointed 
with her finger across the river, but ventured not to turn 
her eyes in that direction. “Nay, but speak plain, most 


THE MOXASTERT. 


123 


generous damsel,” said the Knight, who, for once, was 
puzzled as much as his own elegance of speech was wont 
to puzzle others, “ for 1 swear to you that I comprehend 
nought by the extension of thy fair digit.” 

“ londer is my father’s house,” said Mysie, in a voice 
interrupted by the increased burst of her sorrow. 

“And I was carrying thee discourteously to a distance 
from thy habitation .^” said Shaftoo, imagining he had 
found out the source of her grief. “ Woe worth the hour 
that Piercie Shafton, in attention to his own safety, neg- 
lected the accommodation of any female, far less of his 
most beneficent liberatrice ! Dismount, then, O lovely 
Molinara, unless thou wouldst rather that I should trans- 
port thee on horseback to the house of thy molendinary 
father, which, if thou sayest the word, I am prompt to 
do, defying all dangers which may arise to me person- 
ally, whether by monk or miller.” 

Mysie suppressed her sobs, and with considerable dif- 
ficulty muttered her desire to alight, and take her fortune 
by herself. Sir Piercie Shafton, too devoted a squire of 
dames to consider the most lowly as exempted from a 
respectful attention, independent of the claims which the 
Miller’s maiden possessed over him, dismounted instantly 
from his horse, and received in his arms the poor girl, who 
still wept bitterly, and, when placed on the ground, seem- 
ed scarce able to support herself, or at least still clung, 
though, as it appeared, unconsciously, to the support he 
had afforded. He carried her weeping to a birch-tree, 
which grew on the greensward bank around which the 
road winded, and, placing her on the ground beneath it, 
exhorted her to compose herself. A strong touch of 
natural feeling struggled with, and half overcame his ac- 
quired affectation, while he said, “ Credit me, most gen- 
erous damsel, the service you have done to Piercie Shaf- 
ton he would have deemed too dearly bought, had he 
foreseen it was to cost you these tears and singults. 
Show me the cause of your grief, and if I can do aught 
to remove it, believe that the rights you have acquired over 
me will make your commands sacred as those of an em- 
press. Speak, then, fair Molinara, and command him 


124 


THE MONASTERY. 


whom fortune hath rendered at once your debtor and 
your champion. What are your orders F” 

“ Only that you will dy and save yourself,” said Mysie 
mustering up her utmost efforts to utter these few words. 

“ Yet,” said the Knight, “ let me not leave you without 
some token of remembrance.” Mysie would have said 
there needed none, and most truly would she have spoken, 
could she have spoken for weeping. “ Piercie Shafton 
is poor,” he continued, “ but let this chain testify he is 
not ungrateful to his deliverer.” 

He took from his neck the rich chain and medallion 
we have formerly mentioned, and put it into the power- 
less hand of the poor maiden, who neither received nor 
rejected it, but, occupied with more intense feelings, 
seemed scarce aware of what he was doing. 

“We shall meet again,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “ at 
least I trust so ; meanwhile, weep no more, fair Molinara, 
an thou lovest me.” 

The phrase of conjuration was but used as an ordina- 
ry common-place expression of the time, but bore a deep- 
er sense to poor Mysie’s ear. She dried her tears; and 
when the Knight, in all kind and chivalrous courtesy, 
stooped to embrace her at their parting, she rose humbly 
up to receive the proffered honour in a posture of more 
deference, and meekly and gratefully accepted the offer- 
ed salute. Sir Piercie Shafton mounted his horse, and 
began to ride off, but curiosity, or perhaps a stronger 
feeling, soon induced him to look back, when he beheld 
the Miller’s, daughter standing still motionless on the 
spot where they had parted, her eyes turned after him, 
and the unheeded chain hanging from her hand. 

Jt w'as at this moment that a glimpse of the real state 
of Mysie’s affections and of the motive from which she 
had acted in the whole matter, glanced on Sir Piercie 
Shafton’s mind. The gallants of that age, disinterested, 
aspiring, and lofty-minded, even in their coxcombry, 
were strangers to those degrading and mischievous pur- 
suits which are usually termed low amours. They did 
ot “ chase the humble maidens of the plain,” or degrade 


THE MONASTERY. 


125 


their own rank, to deprive rural innocence of peace and 
virtue. It followed of course, that as conquests in this class 
were no part of their ambition, they were in most cases 
totally overlooked and unsuspected, left unimproved, as a 
modern would call it. w’here, as on the present occasion, 
they were casually made. The companion of Astrophel, 
and flower of the tilt-yard of Feliciana, had no more idea 
that his graces and good parts could attach the love of 
Mysie Happer, than a first-rate beauty in the boxes 
dreams of the fatal wound which her charms may inflict 
on some attorney’s romantic apprentice in the pit. 1 
suppose, in any ordinary case, the pride of rank and 
distinction wouW have pronounced on the humble admir- 
er the doom which Beau Fielding denounced against the 
whole female world, Let them look and die but the 
obligations under which he lay to the enamoured maiden. 
Miller’s daughter as she was, precluded the possibility of 
Sir Piercie’s treating the matter en cavalier, and, much 
embarrassed, yet a little flattered at the same time, he 
rode back to try what could be done for the damsel’s 
relief. The innate modesty of poor Mysie could not 
prevent her showing too obvious signs of joy at Sir Pier- 
cie Shafton’s return. She was betrayed by the sparkle 
of the rekindling eye, and a caress, which, however tim- 
idly bestowed, she could not help giving to the neck of 
the horse which brought back the beloved rider. 

“ What farther can I do for you, kind Molinara 
said Sir Piercie Shafton, himself hesitating and blushing ; 
for, to the grace of Queen Bess’s age be it spoken, her 
courtiers wore more iron on their breasts than brass on 
their foreheads, and even amid their vanities preserved 
still the decaying spirit of chivalry, which inspired of 
yore the very gentle Knight of Chaucer, 

“ Who in his port was modest as a maid." 

Mysie blushed deeply, with her eyes fixed on the 
ground, and Sir Piercie proceeded in the same tone of 
embarrassed kindness. “ Are you afraid to return home 
11* VOt.. II. 


126 


THE MONASTERY. 


alone my kind Molinara f — would you that I should ac- 
company you 

“ Alas 1” said Mysie, looking up, and her cheek 
changing from scarlet to pale, “ I have no home left!” 

“ How ! no home said Shafton , “ says my gener- 
ous Molinara she hath no home, when yonder stands the 
house of her father, and but a crystal stream between ?” 

“ Alas !” answered the Miller’s maiden, “ 1 have no 
longer either home or father. He is a devoted servant 
to the Abbey — I have offended the Abbot, and if 1 return 
home my father will kill me.” 

“ He dare not injure thee, by heaven !” said Sir 
Piercie ; “ I swear to thee by my honour and knight- 
hood, that the forces of my cousin of Northumberland 
shall lay the Monastery so flat, that a horse shall not 
stumble as he rides over it, if they should dare to injure 
a hair of your head ! Therefore be hopeful and content, 
kind Mysinda, and know you have obliged one who can 
and wdll avenge the slightest wrong offered to you.” 

He sprung from his liorse as he spoke, and in the an- 
imation of his argument, grasped the willing hand of 
Mysie, (or Mysinda as he had now christened her.) 
He gazed too upon full black eyes, fixed upon his own 
with an expression which, however subdued by maidenly 
shame, it was impossible to mistake, on cheeks w here 
something like hope began to restore the natural colour, 
and on two lips which, like double rosebuds, w'ere kept 
a little apart by expectation, and showed within a line of 
teeth as white as pearl. All this was dangerous to look 
upon, and Sir Piercie Shafton, after repeating wdth less 
and less force his request that the fair Mysinda would 
allow him to carry her to her father’s, ended by asking 
the fair Mysinda to go along with him — At least,” he 
added, “ until 1 shall be able to conduct you to a place 
of safety.” 

Mysie Happer made no answer ; but, blushing scarlet 
betwixt joy and shame, mutely expressed her willing- 
ness to accompany the Southron Knight, by knitting her 


THE MOXASTEUY. 


127 


bundle closer, and preparing to resume her seat en 
croupe. “ And what is your pleasure that I should do 
with this ?” she said, holding up the chain as if she had 
been for the first time aware that it was in her hand. 

“ Keep it, fairest Mysinda, for my sake,” said the 
Knight. 

“ Not so, sir,” answered Mysie, gravely ; “ the maid- 
ens of my country take no such gifts from their superi- 
ors, and 1 need no token to remind me of this morning.” 

Most earnestly and courteously did the Knight urge 
her acceptance of the proposed guerdon, but on this point 
Mysie was resolute ; feeling perhaps, that to accept of 
any thing bearing the appearance of reward, would be to 
place the service she had rendered him on a mercenary 
footing. In short, she w^ould only agree to conceal the 
chain, lest it might prove the means of detecting the 
owner, until Sir Piercie should be placed in perfect 
safety. 

They mounted and resumed their journey, of which 
Mysie, as bold and sharp-witted in some points as she 
was simple and susceptible in others, now took in some 
degree the direction, having only inquired its general 
destination, and learned that Sir Piercie Shafton desired 
to go to Edinburgh, where he hoped to find friends and 
protection. Possessed of this information, Mysie avail- 
ed herself of her local knowledge to get as soon as pos- 
sible out of the bounds of the Halidome, and into those 
of a temporal baron, supposed to be addicted to the re- 
formed doctrines, and upon whose limits, at least, she 
thought their pursuers would not attempt to hazard any 
violence. She was not indeed very apprehensive of a 
pursuit, reckoning wdth some confidence that the inhabi- 
tants of the Tower of Glendearg would find it a matter 
of difficulty to surmount the obstacles arising from their 
own bolts and bars, with which she had carefully secur- 
ed them before setting forth on the retreat. 

They journeyed on, therefore, in tolerable secuiity, 
and Sir Piercie Shafton found leisure to amuse the time 
in hiirh-flown speeches and long anecdotes of the court 


l28 


the monastery. 


of Feliciana, to which Mysie bent an ear not a whit less 
attentive, that she did not understand one word out of 
three which was uttered by her fellow-traveller. She 
listened, however, and admired upon trust, as many a 
wise man has been contented to treat the conversation of 
a handsome but silly mistress. As for Sir Piercie, he 
was in his element ; and well assured of the interest 
and full approbation of his auditor, he went on spouting 
Euphuism of more than usual obscurity, and at more than 
usual length. Thus passed the morning, and noon brought 
them within sight of a winding stream, on the side of 
which arose an ancient baronial castle, surrounded by 
some large trees. At a small distance from the gate of 
the mansion, extended, as in those days was usual, a 
straggling hamlet, having a church in the centre. 

“ There are two hostelries in this Kirktown,” said 
Mysie, “ but the worst is best for our purpose ; for it 
stands apart from the other houses, and I ken the man 
weel, for he has dealt with my father for malt.” 

This causa scienticc, to use a lawyer’s phrase, was ill 
chosen for Mysie’s purpose ; for Sir Piercie Shafton had, 
by dint of his own loquacity, been talking himself all this 
while into a high esteem for his fellow-traveller, and, 
pleased with the gracious reception which she afforded 
to his powers of conversation, had well nigh forgotten 
that she was not herself one of those high-born beauties 
of whom he was recounting so many stories, when this 
unlucky speech at once placed the most disadvantageous 
circumstances attending her lineage under his immediate 
recollection. He said nothing, however. What indeed 
could he say ^ Nothing was so natural as that a miller’s 
daughter should be acquainted with publicans who dealt 
with her father for malt, and all that was to be y ondered 
at was the concurrence of events which had rendered 
such a female the companion and guide of Sir Piercie 
Shafton of Wilverton, kinsman of the great Earl of 
Northumberland, whom princes and sovereigns llicm- 


THE MONASTERY. 


129 


selves termed cousin, because of the Piercie blood-* 
Hefelt'tlie disgrace of strolling through the country 
with a miller’s maiden on the crupper behind him, and 
was even ungraleful enough to feel some emotions of 
shame, when he halted his horse at the door of the little 
inn. 

But the alert intelligence of Mysie Happer spared him 
farther sense of derogation, by instantly springing from 
the horse, and cramming the ears of mine host, who came 
out with his mouth agape to receive a guest of the Knight’s 
appearance, with an imagined tale, in which circumstance 
on circumstance were huddled so fast, as to astonish Sir 
Piercie Shafton, whose own invention was none of the 
most brilliant. She explained to the publican that this 
w^as a great English knight travelling from the Monastery 
to the Court of Scotland, after having paid his vows to 
Saint Mary, and that she had been directed to conduct 
him so far on the road ; and that Ball, her palfrey, had 
fallen by the way, because he had been over-wrought with 
carrying home the last melder of meal to the portioner 
of Langhope ; and that she had turned in Ball to graze 
in the Tasker’s park near Cripplecross, for he had stood 
as still as Lot’s wife with very weariness ; and that the 
Knight had courteously insisted she should ride behind 
him^and that she had brought him to her kend friend’s 
hostelry rather than to proud Peter Peddie’s, who got 
his malt at the Mellerstane mills ; and that he must get 
the best that the house afforded, and that he must get it 
ready in a moment of time, and that she was ready to 
help in the kitchen. 

All this ran glibly off the tongue without pause on the 
part of Mysie Happer, or doubt on that of the landlord. 
The guest’s horse was conducted to the stable, and he 
himself installed in the cleanest corner and best seat 
which the place afforded. Mysie, ever active and offi- 
cious, was at once engaged in preparing food, in spread- 

* Froissart tells us somewhere (the readers of romances arc indiflferent (o 
accurate reference) that the Kinj^ of France called one of the Fiercies cousin, 
because of the blood of Northumberland. 


130 


THE MONASTERY. 


ing the table, and in making all the better arrangements 
which her experience could suggest, for the honour and 
comfort of her companion. He would fain have resisted 
this ; for while it was impossible not be gratified with the 
eager and alert kindness which was so active in his sef- 
vice, he felt an undefinable pain in seeing Mysinda engag- 
ed in these menial services, and discharging them, more- 
over, as one to whom they were but too familiar. Yet 
this jarring feeling was mixed with, and perhaps balanced 
by, the extreme grace with which the beat-handed maiden 
executed these tasks, however mean in themselves, and 
gave to the wretched comer of a miserable inn of the 
period, the air of a bower, in which an enamouredv/airy, 
or at least a shepherdess of Arcadia, was displaying, with 
unavailing solicitude, her designs on the heart of some 
knight, destined by fortune to higher thoughts, and a 
more splendid union. 

The lightness and grace with which Mysie covered 
the little round table with a snow-white cloth, and ar- 
ranged upon it the hastily-roasted capon, with its accom- 
panying stoup of Bourdeaux, were but plebeian graces 
in themselves ; but yet there were very flattering ideas 
excited by each glance. She was so very well made, 
agile at once and graceful, with her hand and arm as 
white as snow, and her face in which a smile contended 
with a blush, and her eyes which looked ever at Shafton 
when he looked elsewhere, and were dropt at once when 
they encountered his, that she was irresistible ! In fine, 
the affectionate delicacy of her whole demeanour, joined 
to the promptitude and boldness she had so lately evinced, 
tended to ennoble the services she had rendered, as if 
some 

sweet engaging Grace 

Put on some clothes to come abroad, 

And took a waiter’s place. 

But, on the other hand, came the damning reflection, 
that these duties were not lattght her by Love, to serve 
the beloved only, but arose from the ordinary and natural 


THE MONASTERY. 


131 


habits of a miller’s daughter, accustomed, doubtless, to 
render the same service to every wealthier churl who 
frequented her father’s mill. This stopped the mouth of 
vanity, and of the love which vanity had been hatching, 
as effectually a^s a peck of literal flour would have done. 

Amidst this variety of emotions. Sir Piercie Shafton 
forgot not to ask the object of them to sit down and par- 
take the good cheer which she had been so anxious to 
provide and to place in order. He expected that this 
invitation would have been bashfully, perhaps, but certain- 
ly most thankfully, accepted ; but jie was partly flattered 
and partly piqued, by the mixture of deference and reso- 
lution with which Mysie declined his invitation. Imme- 
diately after, she vanished from the apartment, leaving 
the Euphuist to consider whether he was most gratified 
or displeased by her disappearance. 

In fact, this was a point on which he would have found 
it difficult to make up his mind, had there been any neces- 
sity for it. As there was none, he drank a few cups of 
claret, and sang (to himself) a strophe or two of the can- 
zonettes of the divine Astrophel. But in spite both of 
wine and of Sir Philip Sidney, the connexion in which 
he now stood, and that which he was in future to hold, 
with the lovely Molinara, or Mysinda, as he had been 
pleased to denominate Mysie Happer, recurred to his 
mind. The fashion of the times (as we have already 
noticed) fortunately coincided with his own natural gen- 
erosity of disposition, which indeed amounted almost to 
extravagance, in prohibiting, as a deadly sin, alike against 
gallantry, chivalry, and morality, his rewarding the good 
offices he had received from this poor maiden, by abusing 
any of the advantages which her confidence in his honour 
ha*d afforded. To^ do Sir Piercie justice, it was an idea 
wdiich never entered into his head ; and he would proba- 
bly have dealt the most scientific iinhrocata,stoccata, or 
pujito reverso, which the school of Vincent Saviola had 
taught him, to any man who had dared to suggest to him 
such selfish and ungrateful meanness. On the other 
hand, he was a man, and foresaw various circumstances 


132 


THE MO?fASTEllT. 


which might render their journey together in this intimate 
fashion a scandal and a snare. Moreover, he was a 
coxcomb and a courtier, and felt there was something 
ridiculous in travelling the land with a miller’s daughter 
behind his saddle, giving rise to suspicions not very cred- 
itable to either, and to ludicrous constructions, so far as 
he himself w^as concerned. 

“ 1 would,” he said half aloud, “ that, if such might 
be done without harm or discredit to the loo-ambitious, 
yet too-well-distinguishing Molinara, she and 1 were fairly 
severed, and bound on our different courses ; even as 
we see the goodly vessel bound for the distant seas hoist 
sails and bear away into the deep, while the humble 
fly-boat carries to shore those friends, who, with wounded 
iiearts and watery eyes, have committed to their higher 
destinies the more daring adventurers by whom the fair 
frigate is manned.” 

He had scarce uttered the wish when it was gratified ; 
for the host entered to say that his worshipful knight- 
hood’s horse was ready to be brought forth as he had 
desired ; and on his inquiry for “ the — the — damsel — 
that is — the young woman” 

“ Mysie Happer,” said the landlord, “ has returned 
to her father’s ; but she bade me say, you could not miss 
the road for Edinburgh, in respect it was neither far way 
nor foul gate.” 

It is seldom we are exactly blessed with the precise 
fulfilment of our wishes at the moment when we utter 
them ; perhaps because Heaven wisely withholds what, 
if granted, would he often received with ingratitude. So 
at least it chanced in the present instance ; for when mine 
host said that Mysie was returned homeward, the knight 
w^as tempted to reply, with an ejaculation of surprise 
and vexation, and a hasty demand, whither and when 
she had departed f The first emotions his prudence sup- 
pressed, the second found utterance. 

“ Where is she gane said the host, gazing on him, 
and repeating his question — “ She is gane hame to her 
father’s, it is like — and she gaed just when she gave 


THE MONASTERY. 


133 


orders about your worship’s horse, and saw it weel fed, 
(she might jiave trusted me, but millers and millers’ kin 
think a’ body as thief-like as themselves) an’ she’s three 
miles on the gate by this time.” 

“ Is she gone, then ?” muttered Sir Piercie, making 
two or three hasty strides through the narrow apartment — 
“Is she gone ? — Well, then, let her go. She could have 
had but disgrace by abiding by me, and I little credit by 
her society. That 1 should have thought there was such 
difficulty in shaking her off ! I warrant she is by this 
time laughing with some clown she has encountered ; 
and my rich chain will prove a good dowry. — And ought 
it not to prove so ? and has she not deserved it, were it 
ten times more valuable ? — Piercie Shafton ! Piercie 
Shafton ! dost thou grudge thy deliverer the guerdon she 
hath so dearly won f The selfish air of this northern 
land hath infected thee, Piercie Shafton, and blighted the 
blossoms of thy generosity, even as it is said to shrivel 
the flowers of the mulberry. — Yet I thought,” he added, 
after a moment’s pause, “ that she would not so easily 
and voluntarily have parted from me. But it skills not 
thinking of it. — Cast my reckoning, mine host, and let 
your groom lead forth my nag.” 

The good host seemed also to have some mental point 
to discuss, for he answered not instantly, debating per- 
haps whether his conscience would bear a double charge 
for the same guests. Apparently his conscience replied 
in the negative, though not without hesitation, for he at 
length replied — “ It’s daffing to lee ; it winna deny that 
the la wing is clean paid. Ne’ertheless, if your worship- 
ful knighthood pleases to give aught for increase of 
trouble” 

“ How !” said the Knight ; “ the reckoning paid 
and by whom, I pray you 

“ E’en by Mysie Happer, if truth maun be spoken, as 
I said before,” answered the honest landlord, with as 
many compunctious visitings for telling the verity as 
another might have felt for making a lie in the circum- 
12 VOL. II. 


134 


THE MONASTERY. 


stances — “ And out of the moneys supplied for your 
honour’s journey by the Abbot, as she tauld to me. 
And laith were 1 to surcharge any gentleman that darkens 
my doors.” He added, in the confidence of honesty 
which his frank avowal entitled him to entertain, “ Nev- 
ertheless, as 1 said before, if it pleases your knighthood 
of free good-will to consider extraordinary trouble” 

The Knight cut short his argument, by throwing the 
landlord a rose-noble, which probably doubled the value 
of a Scottish reckoning, though it would have defrayed 
but a half one at the Three Cranes or the Vintry. The 
bounty so much delighted mine host, that he ran to fill 
the stirrup-cup (for which no charge was ever made) 
from a butt yet charier than that which he had pierced 
for the former stoup. The Knight paced slowly to horse, 
partook of his courtesy, and thanked him with the stiff 
condescension of the court of Elizabeth ; then mounted 
and followed the northern path, which w'as pointed out 
as the nearest to Edinburgh, and which, though very un- 
like a modern highway, bore yet so distinct a resemblance 
to a public and frequented road as not to be easily mis- 
taken. 

“ I shall not need her guidance it seems,” said he to 
himself, as he rode slowly onward ; “ and 1 suppose that 
was one reason of her abrupt departure, so different 
from what one might have expected. — Well, J am well 
rid of her. Do we not pray to be liberated from temp- 
tation f Yet that she should have erred so much in esti- 
mation of her own situation and mine, as to think of de- 
fraying the reckoning ! I would 1 saw her once more, 
but to explain to her the solecism of which her inexperi- 
ence hath rendered her guilty. And 1 fear,” he added, 
as he emerged from some straggling trees, and looked 
out upon a wild moorish country, composed of a succes- 
sion of swelling lumpish hills, “ I fear I shall soon want 
the aid of this Ariadne, who might afford me a clue through 
the recesses of yonder mountainous labyrinth.” 

As the Knight thus communed with himself, his atten- 
tion was caught by the sound of a horse’s footsteps ^ and 


THE MONASTERY. 


135 


a lad, mounted on a little grey Scottish nag, about four- 
teen hands high, coming along a path which led from be- 
hind the trees, joined him on the high-road, if it could be 
termed such. 

The dress of the lad was completely in village fashion, 
yet neat and handsome in appearance. He had a jer- 
kin of grey cloth slashed and trimmed, wdth black hose 
of the same, with deer-skin rullions or sandals, and hand- 
some silver spurs. A cloak of a dark mulberry coloui 
was closely drawn round the upper part of his person, 
and the cape in part muffled his face, which was also ob- 
scured by his bonnet of black velvet cloth and its little 
plume of feathers. 

Sir Piercie Shafton, fond of society, desirous also to 
have a guide, and, moreover, prepossessed in favour of 
so handsome a youth, failed not to ask him whence he 
came, and whither he was going. The youth looked 
another way, as he answered, that he was going to Ed- 
inburgh, “ to seek service in some nobleman’s family.” 

“ I fear me you have run away from your last master,” 
said Sir Piercie, “ since you dare not look me in the 
face, while you answer my question.” 

“ Indeed, sir, I have not,” answered the lad bashfully, 
while, as if with reluctance, he turned round his face, 
and instantly withdrew it. It w'as a glance, but the dis- 
covery was complete. There was no mistaking the dark 
full eye, the cheek in which much embarrassment could 
not altogether disguise an expression of comic humour, 
and the whole figure at once betrayed, under her meta- 
morj)hosis, the Maid of the Mill. The recognition was 
joyful, and Sir Piercie Shafton was too much pleased to 
have regained his companion, to remember the various 
good reasons which had consoled him for losing her. 

To his questions respecting her dress she answered, 
that she had obtained it in the Kirk-town from a friend ; 
it was the holiday suit of a son of her’s, who had taken 
the field with his liege-lord, the baron of the land. She 
had borrowed the suit under pretence she meant to play 
in some mumming or rural masquerade. She had left, 


136 


THE MONASTERY. 


she said, her own apparel in exchange, which was better 
worth ten crowns than this was worth four. 

“ And the nag, my ingenious Molinara,” said Sir 
Piercie, “ whence comes the nag 

“ I borrowed him from our host at the Gled’s Nest,” 
she replied ; and added, half stifling a laugh, “ he has 
sent to get, intead of it, our Ball, which 1 left in the 
Tasker’s park at Cripplecross. He will be lucky if he 
find it there.” 

‘‘ But then the poor man will lose his horse, most 
argute Mysinda,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, whose Eng- 
lish notions of property were a little startled at a mode 
of acquisition more congenial to the ideas of a miller’s 
daughter (and he a Border miller to boot) than with 
those of an English person of quality. 

“ And if he does lose his horse,” said Mysie, laughing, 
“ surely he is not the first man on the marches who has 
had such a mischance? But he will be no loser, for 1 
warrant he will stop the value out of moneys which he 
has owed my father this many a day.” 

“ But then your father will be the loser,” objected yet 
again the pertinacious uprightness of Sir Piercie Shafton. 

“ What signifies it now to talk of my father said 
the damsel pettishly ; then instantly changing to a tone 
of deep feeling, she added, “ My father has this day lost 
that, which will make him hold light the loss of all the 
gear he has left.” 

Struck with the accents of remorseful sorrow in which 
his companion uttered these few W’ords, the English 
Knight felt himself bound both in honor and conscience to 
expostulate with her as strongly as he could, on the risk 
of the step which she had now taken, and on the pro- 
priety of her returning to her father’s house. The mat- 
ter of his discourse, though adorned with many unneces- 
sary flourishes, was honourable both to his head and heart. 

The Maid of the Mill listened to his flowingperiods 
with her head sunk on her bosom as she rode, like one 
in deep thought or deeper sorrow. When he had fin- 
ished, she raised up her countenance, looked full on the 


THE MONASTERY. 


137 


Knight, and replied with great firmness If you are 
weary of my company, Sir Piercie Shafton, you have but 
to say so, and the miller’s daughter will be no farther 
cumber to you. And do not think 1 will be a burden 
to you, if we travel together to Edinburgh ; I have wit 
enough and pride enough to be a willing burden to no 
man. But if you reject not my company at present, and 
fear not it will be burdensome to you hereafter, speak 
no more to me of returning back. All that you can say 
to me I have said to myself ; and that I am now here, 
is a sign that I have said it to no purpose. Let this sub- 
ject, therefore, be for ever ended betwixt us. I have 
already, in some small fashion, been useful to you, and 
the time may come I may be more so ; for this is not 
your land of England, where men say justice is done with 
little fear or favour to great and to small ; but it is a 
land where men do by the strong hand, and defend by 
the ready wit, and I know better than you the perils you 
are exposed to.” 

Sir Piercie Shafton was somewhat mortified to find 
that the damsel conceived her presence useful to him as 
a protectress as w^ell as guide, and said something of 
seeking protection from nought save his own arm and his 
good sword. Mysie answered very quietly, that she 
nothing doubted his bravery ; but it was that very quality 
of bravery which was most likely to involve him in danger. 
Sir Piercie Shafton, whose head never kept very long 
in any continued train of thinking, acquiesced without 
much reply ; resolving in his own mind that the maiden 
only used this apology to disguise her real motive of 
affection to his person. The romance of the situation 
flattered his vanity and elevated his imagination, as placing 
him in the situation of one of those romantic heroes of 
whom he had read the histories, where similar transfor- 
mations made a distinguished figure. 

He took many a sidelong glance at his page, whose 
habits of country sport and country exercise had ren- 
dered her quite adequate to sustain the character she 
12* VOL. II. 


188 


THE MONASTERY. 


had assumed. She managed the little nag with dexterity, 
and even with grace ; nor did any thing appear which 
could have betrayed her disguise, except when a 
bashful consciousness of her companion’s eyes being 
fixed on her, gave her an appearance of temporary em- 
barrassment, which greatly added to her beauty. 

The couple rode forward as in the morning, pleased 
with themselves and with each other, until they arrived at 
the village where they were to repose for the night, and 
where all the inhabitants of the little inn, both male and 
female, joined in extolling the good grace and handsome 
countenance of the English knight, and the uncommon 
beauty of his youthful attendant. 

It was here that Mysle Happer first made Sir Piercie 
Shafton sensible of the reserved manner in which she 
proposed to live with him. She announced him as her 
master, and, waiting upon him with the reverend demean- 
our of an actual domestic, permitted not the least ap- 
proach to familiarity, not even such as the Knight might 
with the utmost innocence have ventured upon. For 
example. Sir Piercie, who, as we know, was a great con- 
noisseur in dress, was detailing to her the advantageous 
change which he proposed to make in her attire so soon 
as they should reach Edinburgh, by arraying her in his 
own colours of pink and carnation. Mysie Happer list- 
ened with great complacency to the unction with which 
he dilated upon welts, laces, slashes, and trimmings, until 
carried away by the enthusiasm with which he was as- 
serting the superiority of the falling band over the Spanish 
ruff, he approached his hand, in the way of illustration, 
towards the collar of his page’s doublet. She instantly 
stepped back, and gravely reminded him that she was 
alone and under his protection. 

“ You cannot but remember the cause which has 
brought me here,” she continued ; “ make the least ap- 
proach to any familiarity which you would not offer to a 
princess surrounded by her court, and you have seen the 
’ast of the miller’s daughter — She will vanish as the chaff 


THE MONASTERY. 


139 


disappears from the shieling-hill,* when the west wind 
blows.” 

“ I do protest, fair Molinara,” said Sir Piercie Shaf- 
ton — but the fair Molinara had disappeared before his 
protest could be uttered. • “ A most singular wench,” 
said he to himself ; “ and by this hand as discreet as she 
is fair-featured — Certes, shame it were to offer her scathe 
or dishonour ! She makes similes, too, though somewhat 
savouring of her condition. Had she but read Euphues, 
and forgotten that accursed mill and shieling-hill, it is my 
thought that her converse would be broidered with as 
many and as choice pearls of compliment, as that of the 
most rhetorical lady in the Court of Feliciana. I trust 
she means to return to bear me company.^ 

But that was no part of Mysie’s prudential scheme. 
It was then drawing to dusk, and he saw her not again 
until the next morning, w^hen the horses were brought 
to the door that they might prosecute their journey. 

But our story here necessarily leaves the English 
knight and his page, to return to the tower of Glendearg. 


CHAPTER XIL 


You call it an ill angel — it may be so ; 

But sure I am, among the ranks which fell, 

'Tis the first fiend ere counsell’d man to rise, 

And win the bliss the sprite himself had forfeited. 

Old Flay. 

We must resume our narrative at the period when 
Mary Avenel was conveyed to the apartment which had 
been formerly occupied by the two Glendinnings, and 
when her faithful attendant Tibbie had exhausted herself 


* The place where corn was winnowed, while that operation was performed 
by the hand, was called in Scotland the shicling-hlll. 


140 


THE MONASTEET. 


in useless attempts to compose and to comfort her. 
Father Eustace also dealt forth with well-meant kindness 
those apothegms and dogmata of consolation, which 
friendship almost always offers to grief, though they are 
uniformly offered in vain. She was at length left to 
indulge in the desolation of her own sorrowful feelings. 
She felt as those who, loving for the first time, have lost 
what they loved, before time and repeated calamity have 
taught them that every loss is to a certain extent reparable 
or endurable. 

Such grief may be conceived better than it can be de- 
scribed, as is well known to those who have experienced 
it. But Mary Avenel had been taught by the peculiarity 
of her situation, to regard herself as the Child of Des- 
tiny ; and the melancholy and reflecting turn of her dis- 
position gave to her sorrows a depth and breadth peculiar 
to her character. The grave — and it was a bloody grave 
— had closed, as she believed, over the youth to whom she 
was secretly, but most warmly attached ; the force and ar- 
dour of Halbert’s character bearing a singular correspond- 
ence to the energy of which her own was capable. Her 
sorrow did not exhaust itself in sighs or in tears, but when 
the first shock had passed away, concentrated itself with 
deep and steady meditation, to collect and calculate, like 
a bankrupt debtor, the full amount of her loss. It seem- 
ed as if all that connected her with earth, had vanished 
with this broken tie. She had never dared to anticipate 
the probability of an ultimate union with Halbert, yet 
now his supposed fall seemed that of the only tree which 
was to shelter her from the storm. She respected the 
more gentle character and more peaceful attainments 
of the younger Glendinning ; but it had not escaped her 
(what never indeed escaped woman in such circumstan- 
ces) that he was disposed to place himself in competition 
with what she, the daughter of a proud and warlike 
race, deemed the more manly qualities of his elder 
brother ; and there is no time when a woman does so 
little justice to the character of a surviving lover, as 


THE MONASTERY. 


141 


when comparing him with the preferred rival of whom 
she has been recently deprived. 

The motherly, but coarse kindness of Dame Glendin- 
ning, and the doating fondness of her old domestic, seem- 
ed now the only kind feeling of which she formed the 
object ; and she could not but reflect how little these 
were to be compared with the devoted attachment of a 
bigh-souled youth, whom the least glance of her eye could 
command, as the high-mettled steed is governed by the 
bridle of the rider. It was when plunged among these 
desolating reflections, that Mary Avenel felt the void of 
mind, arising from the narrow and bigoted ignorance in 
which Rome then educated the children of her church. 
Tlieir whole religion was a ritual, and their prayers were 
the formal iteration of unknown words, which, in the 
hour of affliction, could yield but little consolation to 
those who from habit resorted to them. Unused to the 
practice of mental devotion, and of personal approach to 
the Divine Presence by prayer, she could not help ex- 
claiming in her distress, ‘ There is no aid for me on 
earth, and I know not how to ask it from heaven !’ 

As she spoke thus in an agony of sorrow, she cast her 
eyes into the apartment, and saw the mysterious Spirit, 
which waited upon the fortunes of her house, standing in 
the moonlight in the midst of the room. The same form, 
as the reader knows, had more than once offered itself to 
her sight; and either her native boldness of mind, or 
some peculiarity attached to her from her birth, made 
her now look upon it without shrinking. But the White 
Lady of Avenel was now more distinctly visible, and 
more closely present, than she had ever before seemed 
to be, and Mary was appalled by her presence. She 
would, however, have spoken ; but there ran a tradition, 
that though others who had seen the White Lady had 
asked questions and received answers, yet those of the 
house of Avenel who had ventured to speak to her, had 
never long survived the colloquy. The figure besides, 
as silting up in her bed Mary Avenel gazed on it intently, 


142 


THE MONASTERY 


seemed by its gestures to caution her to keep silence, 
and at the same time to bespeak attention. 

The White Lady then seemed to press one of tlie 
planks of the floor with her foot, while, in her usual low, 
melancholy, and musical chant, she repeated the follow- 
ing verses : 

‘ Maiden, whose sorrows wail the Living Dead, 

Whose eyes shall commune with the Dead Alive, 

Maiden, attend ! Beneath my foot lies hid 

The Word, the Law, the Path, which thou dost strive 
To find, and canst not find. — Could Spirits shed 
Tears for their lot, it were my lot to weep, 

Showing the road which I shall never tread, 

Though my foot points it — Sleep, eternal sleep, 

Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my lot ! — 

But do not thou at human ills repine, 

Secure thcr** lies full guerdon in this spot, ^ 

For all the woes that wait frail Adam’s line — 

Stoop then and make it your’s — I may not make it mine !’ 

The phantom stooped towards the floor as she con- 
cluded, as if with theintention of laying her hand on the 
board on which she stood. But ere she had completed 
that gesture, her form became indistinct, was presently 
only like the shade of a fleecy cloud, which passed be- 
twixt earth and the moon, and was soon altogether invis- 
ible. 

A strong impression of fear, the first which she had 
experienced in her life to any agitating extent, seized 
upon the mind of Mary Avenel, and for a minute she felt 
a disposition to faint. She repelled it, however, muster- 
ed her courage, and addressed herself to saints and 
angels, as her church recommended. Broken slumbers 
at length stole on her exhausted mind and frame, and 
she slept until the dawn was about to arise, when she w’as 
awakened by the cry of ‘ Treason ! treason ! follow, 
follow !’ which arose in the tower, when it was found 
that Piercie Shafton had made his escape. 

Apprehensive of some new misfortune, Mary Avenel 
hastily arranged the dress which she had not laid aside, 
and, venturing to quit her chamber, learned from Tibb 


THE MOX ASTER Y. 


143 


who, with her grey hairs dishevelled like those of a sibyl, 
was flying- from room to room, that the bloody Southron 
villain had made his escape, and that Halbert Glendin- 
ning, poor bairn, would sleep unrevenged and unquiet in 
his bloody grave. In the lower apartments, the young 
men were roaring like thunder, and venting in oaths and 
exclamations against the fugitives the rage which they 
experienced in finding themselves locked up within the 
tower, and debarred from their vindictive pursuit by the 
wily precautions of Mysie Happer. The authoritative 
voice of the Sub-Prior commanding silence was next 
heard ; upon which Mary Avenel, whose tone of feeling 
did not lead her to enter into counsel or society with the 
rest of the party, again retired to her solitary chamber. 

The rest of the family held counsel in the spence, 
Edward almost beside himself with rage, and the Sub- 
Prior in no small degree offended at the effrontery of 
Mysie Happer in attempting such a scheme, as well as 
at the mingled boldness and dexterity with which it had 
been executed. But neither surprise nor anger availed 
aught. The windows, well secured with iron bars for 
keeping assailants out, proved now as effectual for de- 
taining the inhabitants within. The battlements w^ere 
open, indeed ; but without ladder or ropes, to act as a 
substitute for wings, there was no possibility of descend- 
ing from them. They easily succeeded in alarming the 
inhabitants of the cottages beyond the precincts of the 
court ; but the men had been called in to strengthen the 
guard for the night, and only women and children re- 
mained, who could contribute nothing in the emergency, 
except their useless exclamations of surprise, and there 
were no neighbours for miles around. Dame Elspeth, 
however, though drowned in tears, was not so unmindful 
of external affairs,but that she could find voice enough 
to tell the women and children without, to ‘ leave their 
skirling, and look after the cows that she couldna 
get minded, what wi’ the awfu’ distraction of her mind, 
what wi’ that fause slut having locked them up in their ain 
tower as fast as if they had been in the Jeddart tolbcoth.’ 


144 


THE MONASTERY. 


Meanwhile, the men, finding other modes of exit im- 
possible, unanimously concluded to force the doors with 
such tools as the house afforded for the purpose. These 
were not very proper for the occasion, and the strength 
of the doors was great. The interior one, formed of 
oak, occupied them for three mortal hours, and there 
was little prospect of the iron door being forced in double 
the time. 

While they were engaged in this ungrateful toil, Mary 
Avenel had with much less labour acquired exact know- 
ledge of what the Spirit had intimated in her mystic 
rhyme. On examining the spot which the phantom had 
indicated by her gestures, it W'as not difficult to discover 
that a board had been loosened, which might be raised 
at pleasure. On removing this piece of plank, Mary 
Avenel was astonished to find the Black Book, well 
remembered by her as her mother’s favourite study, of 
which she immediately took possession with as much joy 
as her present situation rendered her capable of feeling. 

Ignorant in a great measure of its contents, Mary Ave- 
nel bad been taught from her infancy to hold this volume 
in sacred veneration. It is probable that the deceased 
lady of Walter Avenel only postponed initiating her 
daughter into the mysteries of the Divine Word, until 
she should be better able to comprehend both the lessons 
which it taught, and the risk at which, in those times, 
they were studied. Death interposed, and removed her 
before the times became favourable to the reformers, 
and before her daughter was so far advanced in age as 
to be fit to receive religious instruction of this deep im- 
port. But the affectionate mother had made preparations 
for the earthly work which she had most at heart. 
There were slips of paper inserted inthe volume, in which, 
by an appeal to, and a comparison of, various passages in 
holy writ, the errors and human inventions with which 
the church of Rome bad defaced the simple edifice of 
Christianity, as erected by its divine architect, were 
pointed out. These controversial topics were treated 
with a spirit of calmness and Christian charity, which 


THE MONASTERY. 


145 


might have been an example to the theologians of the 
period ; but they were clearly, fairly, and plainly argued, 
and supported by the necessary proofs and references. 
Other papers there were which had no reference what- 
ever to polemics, but were the simple effusions of a de- 
vout mind communing with itself. Among these was 
one frequently used, as it seemed from the state of the 
manuscript, on which the mother of Mary had transcrib- 
ed and placed together those affecting texts to which the 
heart has recourse in affliction, and which assure us at 
once of the sympathy and protection afforded to the 
children of the promise. In Mary Avenel’s state of 
mind, these attracted her above all the other lessons, 
which, coming from a hand so dear, had reached her at 
a time so critical, and in a manner so touching. She 
read the affecting promise, ‘ I will never leave thee nor 
forsake thee,’ and the consoling exhortation, ‘ Call upon 
me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee.’ She 
read them, and her heart acquiesced in the conclusion, 
Surely this is the word of God! 

There are those to whom a sense of religion has come 
in storm and tempest ; there are those whom it has 
summoned amid scenes of revelry and idle vanity ; 
there are those, too, wdio have heard its ‘‘still small 
voice” amid rural leisure and placid contentment. But 
perhaps the knowledge which causelh not to err, is most 
frequently impressed upon the mind during seasons of 
affliction ; and tears are the softened showers which 
cause the seed of Heaven to spring and take root in the 
human breast. At least it was thus wulh Mary Avenel. 
She w^as insensible to the discordant noise which rang 
below, the clan of bars and the jarring symphony of the 
levers which they used to force them, the measured shouts 
of the labouring inmates as they combined their strength 
for each heave, and gave time with their voices to the 
exertion of their arms, and their deeply muttered vows 
of revenge on the fugitives who had bequeathed them 
at their departure a task so toilsome and difficult. Not 
13 VOL. II. 


146 


THE MONASTERY* 


all this din, combined in hideous concert, and expressive 
of aught but peace, love, and forgiveness, could divert 
Mary Avenel from the new course of study on which she 
had so singularly entered. “ The serenity of heaven,” 
she said, “is above me ; the sounds which are around 
are but those of earth and earthly passion.” 

Meanwhile the noon was passed, and little impression 
was made on the iron grate, when they who laboured at 
it received a sudden reinforcement by the unexpected 
arrival of Christie of the Clint-hill. He came at the 
head of a small party, consisting of four horsemen, who 
bore in their caps the sprig of holly, which was the badge 
of Avenel. 

“ What, ho ! — my masters,” he said, “ 1 bring you a 
prisoner.” 

“ You had better have brought us liberty,” said Dan 
of the Howlet-hirst. 

Christie looked at the state of affairs with great sur- 
prise. “ An I were to be hanged for it,” he said, “ as I 
may for as little a matter, 1 could not forbear laughing 
at seeing men peeping through their own bars like so 
many rats in a rat-trap, and he with the beard behind, 
like the oldest rat in the cellar!” 

“ Hush, thou unmannered knave,” said Edward, “ it is 
the Sub-Prior, and this is neither time, place, nor com- 
pany, for your ruffian jests.” 

“ What ho ! is my young master malapert ?” said 
Christie ; “ why, man, were he my own carnal father, 
instead of being father to half the world, 1 would have 
my laugh out. And now it is over, I must assist you, 1 
reckon, for you are setting very greenly about this gear 
— put the pinch nearer the staple, man, and hand me 
an iron crow through the grate, for that’s the fowl to fly 
away with a wicket on its shoulders. 1 have broken into 
as many grates as you have teeth in your young head — 
ay, and broke out of them, too, as the captain of the castle 
of Lochmaben knows full well.” 

Christie did not boast more skill than he really pos- 
sessed ; for, applying their combined strength, under 


THE MOXASTERY. 


147 


the direction of that experienced engineer, bolt and staple 
gave way before them, and in less than half an hour, the 
grate, which had so long repelled their force, stood open 
before them. 

“ And now,” said Edward, “ to horse, my mates, and 
pursue the villain Shafton !” 

“ Halt there,” said Christie of the Clint-hill ; “ pur- 
sue your guest, my master’s friend and my own f — there 
go two words to that bargain. What the foul fiend would 
you pursue him for 

“ Let me pass,” said Edward, vehemently, “ I will 
be staid by no man — the villain has murdered my 
brother!” 

“ What says he .?*” said Christie, turning to the 
others ; “ murdered ? who is murdered, and by whom 

“ The Englishman, Sir Piercie Shafton,” said Dan 
of the Howlet-hirst, “ has murdered young Halbert 
Glendinnkig yesterday morning, and we have all risen to 
the fray.” ' 

“ It is a bedlam business, I think,” said Christie. 

First I find you all locked up in your own tower, and 
next I am come to prevent you revenging a murder that 
was never committed !” 

I tell you,” said Edward, “ that my brother was 
slain and buried yesterday morning by this false English- 
man.” 

“ And I tell you,” answered Christie, “ that I saw him 
alive and well last night. I would I knew his trick of 
getting out of the grave ; most men find it more hard to 
break through a green sod than a grated door.” 

Every body now paused, and looked on Christie in 
astonishment, until the Sub-Prior, who had hitherto avoid- 
ed communication with him, came up, and required 
earnestly to know, whether he meant really to maintain 
that Halbert Glendinning lived. 

“ Father,” he said, with more respect than he usually 
showed to any one save his master, “ I confess I may 
sometimes jest with those of your coat, but not with you ; 
because, as you may partly recollect, I owe you a lite. 


148 


THE MONASTERY. 


It is certain as the sun is in heaven, that Halbert Glen- 
dinning supped at the house of my master the Baron of 
Avenel last night, and that he came thither in company 
with an old man, of whom more anon.” 

“ And where is he now 

“ The devil only can answer that question,” replied 
Christie, “ for the devil has possessed the whole family I 
think. He took fright, the foolish lad, at something or 
other which our Baron did in his moody humour, and so 
he jumped into the lake and swam ashore like a wild- 
duck. Robin of Red-castle spoiled a good gelding in 
chasing him this morning.” 

“ And why did he chase the youth .^” said the Sub- 
Prior ; “ what harm had he done .^” 

“ None that I know of,” said Christie ; “ but such 
was the Baron’s order, being in his mood, and all the 
world having gone mad, as 1 have said before.” 

“ Whither away so fast, Edward said the Monk. 

* “ To Corrinan-shian, Father,” answ^ered the youth. 
‘‘ Martin and Dan, take pick-axe and mattock, and fol- 
low me if you be men!” 

“ Right,” said the Monk, “ and fail not to give us 
instant notice w^hat you find.” 

“If you find aught there like Halbert Glendinning,” 
said Christie, hallooing after Edward, “ I will be bound 
to eat him unsalted. — ’Tis a sight to see now how that 
fellow takes the bent ! — It is in the time of action men 
see what lads are made of. Halbert was aye skipping 
up and down like a roe, and his brother used to sit in 
the chimney-nook, with his book and sic like trash — But 
the lad was like a loaded hackbut, which will stand in 
the corner as quiet as an old crutch until ye draw the 
trigger, and then there is nothing but flash and smoke. 
But here comes my prisoner ; and, setting other matters 
aside, I must pray a word with you. Sir Sub-Prior, res- 
pecting him. I came on before to treat about him, but 
I was interrupted with this fasherie.” 

As he spoke, two more of Avenel’s troopers rode into 
the court-yard, leading betwixt them a horse, on which, 


THE MONASTERY. 


149 


with his hands bound to his side, sat the reformed preach- 
er, Henry Warden. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


At school I Is new him — a sharp-witted youth. 

Grave, thoughtful, and reserved among his mates, 

Turning the hours of sport and food to labour, 

Starving his body to inform his mind. 

Old Play. 

The Sub-Prior, at the Borderer’s request, had not 
failed to return into the tower, into which he was follow- 
ed by Christie of the Clint-hill, who, shutting the door 
of the apartment, drew near and began his discourse with 
great confidence and familiarity. 

“ My master,” he said, “ sends me with his commen- 
dations to you. Sir Sub-Prior, above all the community 
of Saint Mary’s, and more especially than even to the 
Abbot himself ; for though he be termed my lord, and 
so forth, all the world knows that you are the tongue of 
the trump.” 

“ If you have aught to say to me concerning the com- 
munity,” said the Sub-Prior, “ it were w^ellyou proceed- 
ed in it without farther delay. Time presses, and the 
fate of young Glendinning dwells on my mind.” 

“ 1 will be caution for him, body for body,” said Chris- 
tje. “ I do protest to you, as sure as I am a living man, 
so surely is he one.” 

“ Should I not tell his unhappy mother the joyful tid- 
ings said Father Eustace, — “ and yet better wait till 
they return from searching the grave. — Well, Sir Jack- 
man, your message to me from your master 

“ My lord and master,” said Christie, “ hath good 
reason to believe that, from the information of certain 
13 * VOL. II. \ 


150 


THE MONASTERY. 


back friends^ whom he will reward at more leisure, your 
reverend community hath been led to deem him ill at- 
tached to Holy Church, allied with heretics and those 
who favour heresy, and a hungerer after the spoils of 
your Abbey.” 

Be brief, good henchman,” said the Sub-Prior, 
“ for the devil is ever most to be feared when he preach- 
eth.” 

“ Briefly, then — my master desires your friendship ; 
and to excuse himself from the maligners’ calumnies, he 
sends to your Abbot that Henry Warden, W’hose sermons 
have turned the world upside down, to be dealt with as 
Holy Church directs, and as the Abbot’s pleasure may 
determine.” ' 

The Sub-Prior’s eyes sparkled at the intelligence; for 
it had been accounted a matter of great importance that 
this man should be arrested, possessed, as he was known 
to be, of so much zeal and popularity, that scarcely the 
preaching of Knox himself had been more awakening to 
the people, and more formidable to the Church of Rome. 

In fact, that ancient system, which so well accommo- 
dated its doctrines to the wants and wishes of a barba- 
rous age, had, since the art of printing, and the gradual 
diffusion of knowledge, lain floating like some huge 
leviathan, into which ten thousand reforming fishers 
were darting their harpoons. The Roman Church of 
Scotland, in particular, was at her last gasp, actually 
blowing blood and water, yet still with unremitted, though 
animal exertions, maintaining the conflict with the as- 
sailants, who on every side were plunging their weapons 
into her bulky body. In many large towns, the monas- 
teries had been suppressed by the fury of the populace ; 
in other places, their possessions had been usurped by 
the power of the reformed nobles ; but still the hierarchy 
made a part of the common law of the realm, and might 
claim both its property and its privileges wherever it had 
the means of asserting them. The community of Saint 
Mary’s of Kennaquhair was considered as being particular- 
ly in this situation. They had retained, undiminished, their 


THE MOXASTEUY# 


151 


territorial power and influence ; and the great barons in 
the neighbourhood, partly from their attachment to the 
party in the state who still upheld the old system of re- 
ligion, partly because each grudged the share of the prey 
which the others must necessarily claim, had as yet ab- 
stained from despoiling the Halidome. The community 
was also understood to be protected by the powerful 
earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland, whose zeal- 
us attachment to the Catholic faith caused at a later 
period the great rebellion of the tenth of Elizabeth. 

Thus happily placed, it w^as supposed by the friends 
of the decaying cause of the Roman Catholic faith, that 
some determined example of courage and resolution, 
exercised where the franchises of the church were yet 
entire, and her jurisdiction undisputed, might awe the 
progress of the new opinions into activity ; and, pro- 
tected by the laws which still existed, and by the favour 
of the sovereign, might be the means of securing the ter- 
ritory wdiich Rome yet preserved in Scotland, and per- 
haps of recovering that which she had lost. 

The matter had been considered more than once by 
the northern Catholics of Scotland, and they had held 
communication with those of the south. Father Eus- 
tace, devoted by his public and private vow^s, had caught 
the flame, and had eagerly advised that they should ex- 
ecute the doom of heresy on the first reformed preacher, 
or, according to his sense, on the first heretic of emi- 
nence, who should venture within the precincts of the 
Halidome. A heart, naturally kind and noble, was, in 
this instance, as it has been in many more, deceived by 
its own generosity. Father Eustace would have been a 
bad administrator of the inquisitorial power of Spain, 
where that power was omnipotent, and where judgment 
was exercised without danger to those who inflicted it. 
Jn such a situation his rigour might have relented in fa- 
vour of the criminal, whom it was at his pleasure to crush 
or to place at freedom. But in Scotland, during this 
crisis, the case was entirely different. The question 
was, whether one of the spirituality dared, at the hazard 


153 


THE MONASTEHY* 


of his own lifejto step forward to assert and exercise the 
rights of the church. Was tliere any one who would 
venture to wield the thunder in her cause, or must it 
remain like that in the hand of a painted Jupiter, the 
object of derision instead of terror The crisis was cal- 
culated to awake the soul of Eustace, for it comprised 
the question, whether he dared, at all hazards to himself, 
to execute with stoical severity a measure which, accord- 
ing to the general opinion, was to be advantageous to the 
church, and, according to ancient law, and to his firm 
belief, was not only justifiable but meritorious. 

While such resolutions w^ere agitated amongst the Cath- 
olics, chance placed a victim within their grasp. Henry 
Warden had, with the animation proper to the enthusiastic 
reformers of the age, transgressed, in the vehemence of 
his zeal, the bounds of the discretional liberty allowed 
to his sect so far, that it was thought the Queen’s per- 
sonal dignity was concerned in bringing him to justice. 
He fled from Edinburgh, with recommendations, how- 
ever, from Lord James Stew^art, afterwards the celebrat- 
ed Earl of Murray, to some of the Border chieftains of 
inferior rank, who were privately conjured to procure him 
safe passage into England. One of the principal persons 
to whom such recommendation was addressed, was Julian 
Avenel ; for as yet, and for a considerable time afterwards, 
the correspondence and interest of Lord James lay rather 
with the subordinate leaders than wdth the chiefs of great 
power, and men of distinguished influence upon the 
Border. Julian Avenel had intrigued without scruple 
with both parties — yet bad as he was, he certainly would 
not have practised aught against the guest whom I.ord 
James had recommended to his hospitality, had it not 
been for what he termed the preacher’s officious inter- 
meddling in his family affairs. But when he had de- 
termined to make Warden rue the lecture he had read 
him, and the scene of public scandal which he had caused 
in his hall, Julian resolved, with the constitutional shrewd- 
ness of his disposition, to combine his vengeance with 
his interest. And therefore, instead of doing violence 


THE MOXASTERT. 


153 


on the person of Henry Warden within his own castle, 
he 'determined to deliver him up to the Community of 
St. Mary’s, and at once make them the instruments of 
his own revenge, and found a claim of personal recom- 
pense either in money, or in a grant of Abbey lands at a 
low quit-rent, which last began now to be the established 
form in which the temporal nobles plundered the spirit- 
uality. 

The Sub-Prior, therefore, of Saint Mary’s, unexpect- 
edly saw the steadfast, active, and inflexible enemy of 
the church delivered into his hand, and felt himself call- 
ed upon to make good his promises to the friends of the 
catholic faith, by quenching heresy in the blood of one 
of its most zealous professors. 

To the honour more of Father Eustace’s heart than 
of his consistency, the communication that Henry Warden 
was placed within his power, struck him with more sor- 
row than triumph ; but his next feelings were those of 
exultation. “ It is sad,” he said to himself, “ to cause 
human suffering, it is awful to cause human blood to be 
spilled ; but the judge to whom the sword of Saint Paul, 
as well as. the keys of Saint Peter, are confided, must not 
flinch from his task. Our weapon returns into our own 
bosom if not wielded with a steady and unrelenting hand 
against the irreconcilable enemies of the Holy Cliurch. 
Pereat iste ! It is the doom he has incurred, and were 
all the heretics in Scotland armed and at his back, they 
should not prevent its being pronounced, and, if possible, 
enforced. — Bring the heretic before me,” he said, issu- 
ing his commands aloud, and in a tone of authority. 

Henry Warden was led in, his hands still bound, but 
his feet at liberty. 

“ Clear the apartment,” said the Sub-Prior, “ of all 
but the necessary guard on the prisoner.” 

All retired excepting Christie of the Clint-hill, who, 
having dismissed the inferior troopers whom he com- 
manded, unsheathed his sword, and placed himself be- 
side the door, as if taking upon him the character of 
sentinel. 


154 


THE MONASTERY. 


The judge and the accused met face to face, and in 
that of both was enthroned the noble confidence of 
rectitude. The Monk was about, at the utmost risk to 
himself and his community, to exercise what in his ig- 
norance he conceived to be his duty. The preacher, 
actuated by a better-informed, yet not a more ardent 
zeal, was prompt to submit to execution for God’s sake, 
and to seal, were it necessary, his mission wdth his blood. 
Placed at such a distance of time as better enables us 
to appreciate the tendency of the principles on which 
they severally acted, we cannot doubt to which the palm 
ought to be awarded. But the zeal of Father Eustace 
was as free from passion and personal views as if it had 
been exerted in a better cause. 

They approached each other, armed each and prepar- 
ed for intellectual conflict, and each intently regarding his 
opponent, as if either hoped to spy out some defect, 
some chasm in the armour of his antagonist. As they 
gazed on each other, old recollections began to awake in 
either bosom, at the sight of features long unseen and 
much altered, but not forgotten. The brow of the Sub- 
Prior dismissed by degrees its frown of command, the 
look of calm yet stern defiance gradually vanished from 
that of Warden, and both lost for an instant that of gloomy 
solemnity. They had been ancient and intimate friends 
in youth at a foreign university, but had been long sepa- 
rated from each other ; and the change of name, which 
the preacher had adopted from motives of safety, and the 
monk from the common custom of the convent, had pre- 
vented the possibility of their hitherto recognizing each 
other in the opposite parts which they had been playing 
in the great polemical and political drama. But now' the 
Sub-Prior exclaimed, “ Henry Wellwood !” and the 
preacher replied, “ William Allan !” — and, stirred by 
the old familiar names, and never-to-be-forgotten recol- 
lections of college studies and college intimacy, their 
hands were for a moment locked in each other. 

“ Remove his bonds,” said the Sub-Prior, and assisted 
Christie in performing that office with his own hands, 


THE MONASTERY. 


155 


although the prisoner scarcely would consent to be un- 
bound, repeating with emphasis, that he rejoiced in the 
cause for which he suffered shame. When his hands 
were at liberty, however, he showed his sense of the 
kindness by again exchanging a grasp and a look of 
affection with the Sub-Prior. 

The salute was frank and generous on either side, yet 
it was but the friendly recognition and greeting which is 
wont to take place betwixt adverse champions, who do 
nothing in hate, but all in honour. As each felt the pres- 
sure of the situation in which they stood, he quitted the 
grasp of the other’s hand, and they fell back, confronting 
each other with looks more calm and sorrowful than ex- 
pressive of any other passion. The Sub-Prior was the 
first to speak. “ And is this, then, the end of that rest- 
less activity of mind, that bold and indefatigable love of 
truth that urged investigation to its utmost limits, and 
seemed to take heaven itself by storm — is this the termi- 
nation of Wellwood’s career? — And having known and 
loved him during the best years of our youth, do we meet 
in our old age as judge and criminal ?” 

“Not as judge and criminal,” said Henry Warden, — for 
to avoid confusion we describe him by his later, and best- 
known name — “ Not as judge and criminal do we meet, but 
as a misguided oppressor and his ready and devoted victim. 
I, too, may ask, are these the harvest of the rich hopes 
excited by the classical learning, acute logical powers, 
and varied knowledge of William Allan, that he should 
sink to be the solitary drone of a cell, graced only above 
the swarm with the high commission of executing Roman 
malice on all who oppose Roman imposture ?” 

“ Not to thee,” answered the Sub-Prior, “ be assured 
— not unto thee, nor unto mortal man, will I render an 
account of the power with wdiich the church may have 
invested me. It was granted but as a deposit for her 
welfare — for her welfare it shall at every risk be exer- 
cised, without fear and without favour.” 

“ I expected no less from your misguided zeal,” an- 
swered the preacher ; “ and in me have you met one 


156 


THE MOXASTERT. 


on vvlionti you may fearlessly exercise your authority, 
secure that his mind at least will defy your influence, as 
the snows of that Mont Blanc which we saw together, 
shrink not under the heat of the hottest summer sun.” 

“ I do believe thee,” said the Sub-Prior, “ I do be- 
lieve that thine is indeed metal unmalleable by force. 
Let it yield then to persuasion. Let us debate these 
matters of faith, as we once were wont to conduct our 
scholastic disputes, when hours, nay days, glided past in 
the mutual exercise. of our intellectual powers. It may 
be thou may’st yet hear the voice of the shepherd, and 
return to the universal fold.” 

“ No, Allan,” replied the prisoner, “ this is no vain 
question, devised by dreaming scholiasts, on which they 
may whet their intellectual faculties until the very metal 
be wasted away. The errors which I coilihat are like 
those fiends which are only cast out by fasting and 
prayer. Alas ! not many wise, not many learned are 
chosen ; the cottage and the hamlet shall in our days bear 
witness against the schools and their disciples. Thy very 
wisdom, which is foolishness, hath made thee, as the 
Greeks of old, hold as foolishness that which is the only 
true wisdom.” 

“ This,” said the Sub-Prior, sternly, “ is the mere 
cant of ignorant enthusiasm, which appealeth from learn- 
ing and from authority, from the sure guidance of that 
lamp which God hath afforded us in the Councils and in 
the Fathers of the church, to a rash, self-willed, and ar- 
bitrary interpretation of the Scriptures, wrested accord- 
ing to the private opinion of each speculating heretic.” 

“ 1 disdain to reply to the charge,” replied Warden 
“ The question at issue between your church and mine, 
is, whether we will be judged by the Holy* Scriptures, or 
by the devices and decisions of men not less subject to 
error than ourselves, and who have defaced our holy re- 
ligion with vain devices, reared up idols of stone and wood, 
in form of those, who, when they lived, were but sinful 
creatures, to share the worship due only to the Creator 
—established a toll-house betwixt heaven and hell, 


THE MONASTERY. 


157 


that profitable purgatory of which the Pope keeps the 
keys, like an iniquitous judge commutes punishment for 
bribes, and” 

“ Silence, blasphemer,” said the Sub-Prior, sternly, 
“or I will have thy blatent obloquy stopped with a gag!” 

“ Ay,” replied Warden, “such is the freedom of the 
Christian conference to which Rome’s priests so kindly 
invite usl— the gag — the rack — the axe— is the ratio ultima 
Romce, But know thou, mine ancient friend, that the 
character of thy former companion is not so changed by 
age, but thkt he still dares to endure for the cause of 
truth all that thy proud hierarchy shafll dare to inflict.” 

“ Of that,” said the Monk, “ I notbifig doubt — Thou 
wert ever a lion to turn againsy the spear of the hunter, 
not a stag to be dismayed at tne sound of his bugle.” — 
He walked through the room in silence. “ Wellwood,” 
he said at length, “ we can no longer be friends. Our 
faith, our hope, our anchor on futurity, is no longer the 
same.” 

“ Deep is my sorrow that thou speakest truth. May 
God so judge me,” said the Reformer, “ as I would buy 
the conversion of a soul like thine with my dearest heart’s ^ 
blood.” 

“ To thee, and with better reason, do I return the 
wish,” replied the Sub-Prior “ it is such an arm as thine 
that should defend the bulwarks of the church, and it is 
now directing the battering-ram against them, and ren- 
dering practicable the breach through which all that is 
greedy, and all that is base, and all that is mutable and 
hot-headed in this innovating age, already hope to ad- 
vance to destruction and to spoil. But since such is our 
fate, that we can no longer fight side by side as friends, 
let us at least act as generous enemies. You cannot 
have forgotten, 

O gran bonta dei cavalieri antiqui ! 

Erano nemici,eran’ de fede diversa — 

Although, perhaps,” he added, stopping short in his 
14 VOL. II. 


158 


THE MONASTERY* 


quotation, “ your new faith forbids you to reserve a place 
in your memory, even for what high poets have recorded 
of loyal faith and generous sentiment.” 

“ The faith of Buchanan,” replied the preacher, 
“ the faith of Buchanan and of Beza cannot be unfriend- 
ly to literature. But the poet you have quoted affords 
strains fitter for a dissolute court than for a convent.” 

“ I might retort on your Theodore Beza,” said the 
Sub-Prior, smiling ; “ but 1 hate the judgment that, like 
the flesh-fly, skirns over whatever is sound, to detect and 
settle upon some spot which is tainted. But to the pur- 
pose. If I conduct thee or send thee a prisoner to Saint 
Mary’s, thou art to-night a tenant of the dungeon, to- 
morrow a burden to the gibbet-tree. Jf I were to let 
thee go hence at large, I were thereby wronging the Holy 
Church, and breaking mine own solemn vow. Other 
resolutions may be adopted in the capital, or better times 
may speedily ensue. Wilt thou remain a true prisoner 
upon thy parole, rescue or no rescue, as is the phrase 
amongst the warriors of this country.^ Wilt thou solemnly 
promise that thou wilt do so, and that at my summons 
- thou wilt present thyself before the Abbot and chapter of 
Saint Mary’s, and that thou wilt not stir from this house 
above a quarter of a mile in any direction ? Wilt thou, I 
say, engage me thy word for this? and such is the sure 
trust which I repose in thy good faith, that thou shalt re- 
main here unharmed and unsecured, a prisoner at large, 
subject only to appear before our court when called upon.” 

The preacher paused — “ I am unwilling,” he said, 
“ to fetter my native liberty by any self-adopted engage- 
ment. But I am already in your power^id you may 
bind me to my answer. By such promise, to abide within 
a certain limit, and to appear when called upon, I re- 
nounce not any liberty which I at present possess, and 
am free to exercise ; but, on the contrary, being in bonds, 
and at your mercy, I acquire thereby a liberty which I at 
present possess not. 1 will therefore accept of thy prof- 
fer, as what is courteously offered on thy part, and may 
be honourably accepted on mine.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


159 


‘ Stay yet,” said the Sub-Prior, “one important part 
of thy engagement is forgotten — thou art farther to prom- 
ise, that while thus left at liberty, thou wilt not preach or 
teach, directly or indirectly, any of those pestilent here- 
sies by which so many souls have been in this our day 
won over from the kingdom of light to the kingdom of 
darkness.” 

“ There we break off our treaty,” said Warden, firmly, 
“ Woe unto me if I preach not the gospel !” 

The Sub-Prior’s countenance became clouded, and he 
again paced the apartment, and muttered, “ A plague 
upon the self-willed fool !” then stopped short in his walk, 
and proceeded in his argument. — “ Why, by thine own 
reasoning, Henry, thy refusal here is but peevish obsti- 
nacy. It is in my power to place you where your 
preaching can reach no human ear ; in promising there- 
fore to abstain from it, you grant nothing which you have 
it in your power to refuse.” 

“ I know not that,” replied Henry Warden ; “ thou 
mayest indeed cast me into a dungeon, but can I foretell 
that my Master hath not task-work for me to perform 
even in that dreary mansion ? The chains of saints have, 
ere now, been the means of breaking the bonds of Satan. 
In a prison, holy Paul found the jailor whom he brought 
to believe the word of salvation, he and all his house.” 

“ Nay,” said the Sub-Prior, in a tone betwixt anger 
and scorn, “ If you match yourself with the blessed 
Apostle, it were time we had done — prepare to endure 
what thy folly, as well as thy heresy, deserves. — Bind 
him, soldier.” 

With proud submission to his fate, and regarding the 
Sub-Prior with something which almost amounted to a 
smile of superiority, the preacher placed his arms so that 
the bonds could be again fastened round him. 

“ Spare me not,” he said to Christie ; for even that 
ruffian hesitated to draw the cord straitly. 

The Sub-Prior, meanwhile, looked -at him from under 
his cowl, which he had drawn over his head, and partly 
over his face, as if he wished to shade his own emotions. 


160 


THE MOxVASTERT. 


They were those of a huntsman within point-blank shot of 
a noble stag, who is yet too much struck with his majesty of 
front and of antler to take aim at him. They were those 
of a fowler, who, levelling his gun at a magnificent eagle 
is yet reluctant to use his advantage when he sees the no- 
ble sovereign of the birds pruning himself in proud defi 
ance of whatever may be attempted against him. The 
heart of the Sub-Prior (bigoted as he was) relented, 
and he doubted if he ought to purchase by a rigorous 
discharge of what he deemed his duty, the remorse he 
might afterwards feel for the death of one so nobly inde- 
pendent in thought and character, the friend, besides, of 
his own happiest years, during which they had, side by 
side, striven in the noble race of knowledge, and indulged 
their intervals of repose in the lighter studies of classical 
and general letters. 

The Sub-Prior’s hand pressed his half-o’ershadowed 
cheek, and his eye, more completely obscured, was bent 
on the ground, as if to hide the workings of his relenting 
nature. 

“ Were but Edward safe from the infection,” he 
thought to himself — “ Edward, whose eager and enthu- 
siastic mind presses forward in the. chase of all that hath 
even the shadow of knowledge, I might trust this enthu- 
siast with the women, after due caution to them that they 
cannot, without guilt, attend to his reveries.” 

As the Sub-Prior revolved these thoughts, and delay- 
ed the definitive order which was to determine the fate of 
the prisoner, a sudden noise at the entrance of the tower 
diverted his attention for an instant, and, his cheek and 
brow inflamed with all the glow of heat and determina- 
tion, Edward Glendinning rushed into the room. 


THE MONASTERY* 


161 


CHAPTER X]V. 

f Then in my ^own of sober gray 

Along the mountain path Fll wander, 

And wind my solitary way 
To the sad shrine that courts me yonder. 

I 

There, in the calm monastic shade, 

All injuries may be forgiven ; 

And there for thee, obdurate maid. 

My orisons shall rise to heaven. 

The Cruel Ladij of the Mo^lntains. 

The first words which Edward uttered were, — “ My 
brother is safe, reverend father — he is safe, thank God, 
and lives ! — There is not in Corrinan-shian a grave, nor 
a vestige of a grave. The turf around the fountain has 
neither been disturbed by pick-axe, spade, or mattock, 
since the deer’s-hair first sprang there. He lives as 
surely as I live !” 

The earnestness of the youth — the vivacity with which 
he looked and moved — the springy step, outstretched 
hand, and ardent eye, reminded Henry Warden of Hal- 
bert, so lately his guide. 

The brothers had indeed a strong family resemblance, 
though Halbert was far more athletic and active in his 
person, taller and better knit in the limbs, and though 
Edward had, on ordinary occasions, a look of more ha- 
bitual acuteness and more profound reflection. The 
preacher was interested as well as the Sub- Prior. 

“ Of whom do you speak, my son he said, in a tone 
as unconcerned as if his own fate had not been at the 
same instant trembling in the balance, and as if a dun- 
geon and death did not appear to be his instant doom — 
“ Of whom, I say, speak you ^ If of a youth somewhat 
older than you seem to be — brown-haired, open-featured, 
taller and stronger than you appear, yet having much of 
14 * VOL. II. 


J62 


THE MONASTERY. 


the same air and of the same tone of voice — if such a 
one is the brother whom you seek, it may be 1 can tell 
you news of him.” 

“ Speak, then, for Heaven’s sake,” said Edward — 
“ life or death lies on thy tongue.” 

The Sub-Prior joined eagerly in the same request, and 
without waiting to be urged, the preacher gave a minute 
account of the circumstances under which he met the 
elder Glendinning, with so exact a description of his per- 
son, that there remained no doubt as to his identity. 
When he mentioned that Halbert Glendinning had con- 
ducted him to the dell in which they found the grass 
bloody, and a grave newly closed, and told how the youth 
accused himself of the slaughter of Sir Piercie Shafton, 
the Sub-Prior looked on Edward with astonishment. 

“ Didst thou not say, even now,” he said, “ that there 
w as no vestige of a grave in that spot F” 

“ No more vestige of the earth having been removed 
than if the turf had grown there since the days of Adam,” 
replied Edward Glendinning. “ It is true,” he added, 
“ that the adjacent grass was trampled and bloody.” 

“ These are delusions of the enemy,” said the Sub- 
Prior, crossing himself. — “ Christian men may no longer 
doubt of it.” 

“But an’ it be so,” said Warden, “ Christian men 
might better guard themselves by the sword of prayer than 
by the idle form of a cabalistical spell.” 

“ The badge of our salvation,” said the Sub-Prior, 
“ cannot be so termed — the sign of the cross disarmelh 
all evil spirits.” 

“ Ay,” answered Henry Warden, apt and armed for 
controversy ; “ but it should be borne in the heart, not 
scored with the fingers in the air. That very impassive 
air, through which your hand passes, shall as soon bear 
the imprint of your action, as the external action shall 
avail the fond bigot who substitutes vain motions of the 
body, idle genuflections, and signs of the cross, for the liv- 
ing and heart-born duties of faith and good w'orks.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


163 


“ I pity thee,” said the Sub-Prior, as actively ready for 
polemics as himself, — “ I pity thee, Henry, and reply 
not to thee. Thou mayst as well winnow forth and 
measure the ocean with a sieve, as mete out the power 
of holy words, deeds, and signs, by the erring gauge of 
thine own reason. 

“ Not by mine own reason would I mete them,” said 
Warden ; “ but by His Holy Word, that unfading and un- 
erring lamp of our paths, compared to which human rea- 
son is but as a glimmering and fading taper, and your 
boasted tradition only a misleading wild-fire. Show me 
your Scripture warrant for ascribing virtue to such vain 
signs and motions .^” 

“ I offered thee a fair field of debate,” said the 
Sub-Prior, “ which thou didst refuse. 1 will not at 
present resume the controversy.” 

“ Were these my last accents,” said the Reformer, 
“ and were they uttered at the stake, half-choked with 
smoke, and as the faggots kindled into a blaze around 
me, with that last utterance I w^ould testify against the 
superstitious devices of Rome.” 

The Sub-Prior suppressed with pain the controversial 
answer which arose to his lips, and turning to Edward 
Glendinning, he said, “ there could be now no doubt that 
his mother ought presently to be informed that her son 
lived.” 

“ I told you that two hours since,” said Christie of the 
Clint-hill, “ an you would have believed me. But it 
seems you are more willing to take the word of an old 
grey sorner, whose life has been spent in pattering her- 
esy, than mine, though I never rode a foray in my life 
without duly saying my pater-noster.” 

“ Go, then,” said Father Eustace to Edward ; ‘‘ let 
thy sorrowing mother know that her son is restored to her 
from the grave, like the child of the widow of Zarephath ; 
at the intercession,” he added, looking at Henry Warden, 
“ of the blessed Saint whom I invoked in his behalf.” 

“Deceived thyself,” said Warden, instantly, “thou 
art a deceiver of others. It was no dead man, no creature 


164 


THE MONASTERY. 


of clay, whom the blessed Tishbite invoked, when, stung 
by the reproach of the Shunamite woman, he prayed that 
her son’s soul might come into him again.” 

‘‘ It was by his intercession, however,” repeated the 
Sub-Prior ; ‘‘ for what says the Vulgate ? Thus is it 
written : ‘ Kt eccaudivit Dommus vocem Helie ; et reversa 
est anima pueri intra eum, et revixit — and thinkest thou 
the intercession of a glorified saint is more feeble than 
when he walks on earth, shrouded in a tabernacle of 
clay, ancf seeing but with the eye of flesh 

During this controversy Edward Glendinning appear- 
ed restless and impatient, agitated by some strong inter- 
nal feeling, but whether of joy, grief, or expectation, his 
countenance did not expressly declare. He took now 
the unusual freedom to break in upon the discourse of the 
Sub-Prior, who, notwithstanding his resolution to the 
contrary, was obviously kindling in the spirit of contro- 
versy, which Edward diverted by conjuring his reverence 
to allow him to speak a few words with him in private. 

“ Remove the prisoner,” said the Sub-Prior to Chris- 
tie ; “ look to him carefully that he escape not ; but for 
thy life do him no injury.” 

His commands being obeyed, Edward and the Monk 
were left alone, when the Sub-Prior thus addressed him. 

“ What hath come over thee, Edward, that thy eye 
kindles so wildly, and thy cheek is thus changing from 
scarlet to pale ? Why didst thou break in so hastily and 
unadvisedly upon the argument with which I was pros- 
trating yonder heretic ? And wherefore dost thou not 
tell thy mother that her son is restored to her by the 
intercession, as Holy Church w^ell warrants us to believe, 
of blessed Saint Benedict, the patron of our Order ? 
For if ever my prayers were put forth to him with zeal, 
it hath been in behalf of this house, and thine eyes have 
seen the result — go tell it to thy mother.” 

“1 must tell her then,” said Edward, “ that if she has 
regained one son, another is lost to her.” 

“ What meanest thou, Edward ? what language is 
this .^” said the Sub-Prior. 


THE MONASTERY. 


165 


“ Father,” said the youth, kneeling down to him, ‘‘ my 
sin and my shame shall be told thee, and thou shalt wit- 
ness my penance with thine own eyes.” 

“ I comprehend thee not,” said the Sub-Prior. “ What 
canst thou have done to deserve such self-accusation — 
Hast thou too listened,” he added, knitting his brows, 
“ to the demon of heresy, ever most effectual tempter 
of those, who, like yonder unhappy man, are distinguish- 
ed by their love of knowledge .^” 

‘‘ I am guiltless in that matter,” answered Glendin- 
ning, “ nor have presumed to think otherwise than thou, 
my kind father, hast taught me, and than the church 
allows.” 

“ And what is it then, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, 
kindly, “ which thus afflicts thy conscience ^ speak it to 
me, that I may answer thee in the words of comfort ; for 
the Church’s mercy is great to those obedient children 
who doubt not her power.” 

“ My confession will require her mercy,” replied 
Edward. ‘‘ My brother Halbert — so kind, so brave, so 
gentle, who spoke not, thought not, acted not, but in love 
to me, whose hand had aided me in every difficulty, 
whose eye watched over me like the eagle’s over her 
nestlings, when they prove their first flight from the eyry 
— this brother, so kind, so gentle, so affectionate — 1 
heard of his sudden, his bloody, his violent death, and I 
rejoiced — I heard of his unexpected restoration, and I 
sorrowed!” 

“ Edward,” said the father, “ thou art beside thyself 
— what could urge thee to such odious ingratitude?— in 
your hurry of spirits you have mistaken the confused 
tenor of your feelings. — Go, my son, pray and compose 
thy mind — we will speak of this another time.” 

‘‘ No, father, no,” said Edward vehemently, “ now, or 
never ! — I will find the means to tame this rebellious heart 
of mine, or 1 will tear it out of my bosom — Mistake its 
passions ^ — No, father, grief can ill be mistaken for joy 
— All wept, all shrieked around me — my mother — the 
menials — she, too, the cause of my crime — all wept- 


166 


THE MONASTERY. 


and I — I could hardly disguise my brutal and insane joy, 
under the appearance of revenge — Brother, I said, I 
cannot give thee tears, but I will give thee blood — Yes, 
father, as I counted hour after^ hour, while I kept watch 
upon the English prisoner, and said, I am an hour nearer 
to hope and to happiness ’ 

“ 1 understand thee not, Edward,” said the Monk, 
“ nor can I conceive in what way thy brother’s supposed 
murder should have affected thee with such unnatural 
joy — Surely the sordid desire to succeed him in his small 
possessions” 

“ Perish the paltry trash !” said Edward with the same 
emotion. No, father, it was rivalry — it was jealous 
rage — it was the love of Mary Avenel that rendered me 
the unnatural wretch I confess myself I” 

“ Of Mary Avenel !” said the priest — of a lady so 
high above either of you in name and in rank ? How dared 
Halbert — how dared you, presume to lift your eye to 
her but in honour and respect, as to a superior of another 
degree from yours 

“ When did love wait for the sanction of heraldry 
replied Edward ; “ and in what but a line of dead an- 
cestors was Mary, our mother’s guest and foster-child, 
different from us, with whom she was brought up ? — 
Enough, we loved — we both loved her ! But the passion 
of Halbert was requited. He knew it not, he saw it not 
— but I was sharper-eyed. I saw that even when I was 
more approved. Halbert was more beloved. With me 
she would sit for hours at our common task with the cold 
simplicity and indifference of a sister, but with Halbert 
she trusted not herself. She changed colour, she was 
fluttered when he approached her ; and when he left 
her, she was sad, pensive, and solitary. I bore all this — 
I saw my rival’s advancing progress in her affections — I 
bore it, father, and yet 1 hated him not — I could not 
hate him !” 

“ And well for thee that thou didst not,” said the 
father ; “ wild and headstrong as thou art, wouldst thou 
hale thy brother for partaking in thine own folly 


THE MONASTERY. 


167 


“Father,” replied Edward, “the world esteems thee 
wise, and holds thy knowledge of mankind high ; but thy 
question shows that thou hast never loved. It was by an 
effort that I saved myself from hating my kind and affec- 
tionate brother, who, all unsuspicious of my rivalry, was 
perpetually loading me with kindness. Nay, there were 
moods of my mind, in which I could return that kind- 
ness for a time with energetic enthusiasm. Never did I 
feel this so strongly as on the night which parted us. 
But I could not help rejoicing when he was swept from 
my track — could not help sorrowing when he was again 
restored to be a stumbling-block in my paths.” 

“ May God be gracious to thee, my son !” said the 
Monk ; “ this is an awful state of mind. Even in such 
evil mood did the first murderer rise up against his 
brother, because Abel’s was the more acceptable sacri- 
fice.” 

“ I will wrestle with the demon which has haunted me, 
father,” replied the youth, firmly — “ I will wrestle with 
him, and I will subdue him. But first I must remove 
from the scenes which are to follow here. I cannot 
endure that 1 should see Mary Avenel’s eyes again flash 
with joy at the restoration of her lover. It were a sight 
to make indeed a second Cain of me ! My fierce, turbid, 
and transitory joy discharged itself in a thirst to commit 
homicide, and how can I estimate the frenzy of my 
despair ?” 

“ Madman !” said the Sub-Prior, “ at what dreadful 
crime does thy fury drive ?” 

“ My lot is determined, father,” said Edward, in a 
resolute tone ; “ I will embrace the spiritual state which 
you have so oft recommended. It is my purpose to 
return with you to Saint Mary’s, and with the permission 
of the Holy Virgin and of Saint Benedict, to offer my 
profession to the Abbot.” 

“ Not now, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, “ not in 
this distemperature of mind. The wise and good accept 
not gifts which are made in heat of blood, and which 
may be after repented of ; and shall we make our offer- 


168 


THE MONASTERY. 


ings to wisdom and to goodness itself with less of solemn 
resolution and deep devotion of mind, than is necessary 
to make them acceptable to our own frail companions in 
this valley of darkness f This I say to thee my son, not 
as meaning to deter thee from the good path thou art 
now inclined to prefer, but that thou may’st make thy 
vocation and thine election sure.” 

“ There are actions, father,” returned Edward, 
which brook no delay, and this is one. It must be 
done this very now, or it may never be done. Let me 
go with you ; let me not behold the return of Halbert 
into this house. Shame, and the sense of the injustice I 
have already done him, will join with these dreadful pas- 
sions which urge me to do him yet farther wrong. Let 
me then go with you.” 

With me, my son,” said the Sub-Prior, “ thou shalt 
surely go ; but our rule, as well as reason and good order, 
require that you should dwell a space with us as a proba- 
tioner or novice, before taking upon thee those final vows, 
which, sequestering thee for ever from the world, dedi- 
cate thee to the service of Heaven.” 

‘‘ And when shall we set forth, father said the 
youth, as eagerly as if the journey which he was now 
undertaking led to the pleasures of a summer holiday. 

“ Even now, if thou wilt,” said the Sub-Prior, yield- 
ing to his impetuosity — “ go, then, and command them 
to prepare for our departure. — “ Yet stay,” he said, as 
Edw'ard, with all the awakened enthusiasm of his char- 
acter, hastened from his presence ; “ come hither, my 
son, and kneel down.” 

Edward obeyed, and kneeled down before him. Not 
withstanding his slight figure and thin features, the Sub 
Prior could, from the energy of his tone, and the earnest- 
ness of his devotional manner, impress his pupils and his 
penitents with no ordinary feelings of personal reverence. 
His heart always was, as well as seemed to be, in the 
duty, which he was immediately performing ; and the 
spiritual guide who thus shows a deep conviction of the 
importance of his office, seldom fails to impress a similar 


THE MONASTERY. 


169 


feeling upon his hearers. Upon such occasions as the 
present, his puny body seemed to assume more majestic 
stature — his spare and emaciated countenance bore a 
bolder, loftier, and more commanding port — his voice, 
always beautiful, trembled as labouring under the imme- 
diate impulse of the Divinity — and his whole demeanour 
seemed to bespeak, not the mere ordinary man, but the 
organ of the Church in which she had vested her high 
power for delivering sinners from their load of iniquity. 

“ Hast thou, my fair son,” said he, “ faithfully re- 
counted the circumstances which have thus suddenly de- 
termined thee to a religious life 

“ The sins I have confessed, my father,” answered 
Edward, “ but I have not yet told of a strange appearance, 
which, acting on my mind, hath, I think, aided to deter- 
mine my resolution.” 

“ Tell it then, now,” returned the Sub-Prior ; “ it 
is thy duty to leave me uninstructed in nought, so that 
1 hereby I may understand the temptation that besets 
thee.” 

“ I tell it with unwillingness,” said Edward ; ‘‘ for 
although, God wot, I speak but the mere truth, yet even 
while my tongue speaks it as truth, my own ears receive 
it as fable.” 

“Yet say the whole,” said Father Eustace; “neith- 
er fear rebuke from me, seeing I may know reasons for 
receiving as true that which others might regard as fab- 
ulous.” 

“ Know, then, father,” replied Edward, “ that, be- 
twixt hope and despair — and, heavens ! what a hope ! — 
the hope to find the corpse mangled and crushed hastily 
in amongst the bloody clay which the foot of the scorn- 
ful victor had trod down upon my good, my gentle, my 
courageous brother, — I sped to the glen called Corrinan- 
shian ; but, as your reverence has been already inform- 
ed, neither the grave, which my unhallowed wishes had in 
spite of my better self longed to see, nor any appearance 
of the earth having been opened, was visible in the soli- 

J5 VOL. II. 


170 


THE MONASTERY. 


tary spot where Martin had, at morning yesterday, seen 
the fatal hillock. You know our dales-men, father. The 
place hath an evil name, and this deception of the sight 
inclined them to leave it. My companions became 
affrighted, and hastened down the glen as men caught in 
trespass. My hopes were too much blighted, my mind 
too much agitated, to fear either the living or the dead. 
I descended the glen more slowly than they, often look- 
ing back, and not ill pleased with the poltroonery of my 
companions, which left me to my own perplexed and 
moody humour, and induced them to hasten into the 
broader dale. They were already out of sight, and lost 
amongst the windings of the glen, when, looking back, I 

saw a female form standing beside the fountain” 

“ How, my fair son said the Sub-Prior, “ beware 
you jest not with your present situation!” 

“ I jest not, father,” answered the youth ; “ it may 
be I shall never jest again — surely not for many a day. 
I saw, I say, the form of a female clad in white, such — 
such as the Spirit which haunts the house of Avenel is 
supposed to be. Believe me, my father, for, by heaven 
and earth, 1 say nought but what I saw with these eyes 1” 
“ I believe thee, my son,” said the Monk ; “ proceed 
in thy strange story.” 

“ The apparition,” said Edward Glendinning, “ sung, 
and thus run her lay ; for strange as it may seem to you, 
her words abide by my remembrance as if they had been 
sung to me from infancy upward : 

* Thou who seek’st my fountain lone, 

With thoughts and hopes thou darest not own ; 

Whose heart within leap’d wildly glad 

When most his brow seem’d dark and sad j 

Hie thee back, thou find’st not here 

Corpse or coffin, grave or bier ; 

The Dead Alive is gone and fled — 

Go thou, and join the Living Dead 

* The Living Dead, whose sober brow 

Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast now. 


THE MOXASTERT. 


171 


Whose hearts within are seldom cured 
Of passions by their vows abjured ; 

Where, under sad and solemn show. 

Vain hopes are nursed, wild wishes glow. 

Seek the convent’s vaulted room. 

Prayer and vigil be thy doom ; 

Doff the green, and don the grey, 

To the cloister hence away !’ ” 

“ ’Tis a wild lay,” said the Sub-Prior, “ and chanted, 
I fear me, with no good end. But we have power to 
turn the machinations of Satan to his shame. Edward, 
thou shalt go with me as thou desirest ; thou shalt prove 
- the life for which I have long thought thee best fitted — 
thou shalt aid, my son, this trembling hand of mine to 
sustain the Holy Ark, which bold unhallowed men press 
rashly forward to touch and to profane. — Wilt thou not 
first see thy mother f” 

“ I will see no one,” said Edward hastily ; “ I will 
risk nothing that may shake the purpose of my heart. 
From Saint Mary’s they shall learn my destination — all 
of them shall learn it. My mother — Mary Avenel — my 
restored and happy brother — they shall all know that 
Edward lives no longer to the world to be a clog on their 
happiness. Mary shall no longer need to constrain her 
looks and expressions to coldness because I arn nigh 
She shall no longer” 

‘‘ My son,” said the Sub-Prior, interrupting him, “ it 
is not by looking back on the vanities and vexations of 
this world, that we fit ourselves for the discharge of du- 
ties which are not of it. Go, get our horses ready, and 
as we descend the glen together, I will teach thee the 
truths through which the fathers and wise men of old 
had that precious alchemy, which can convert suffering 
into happiness” 


172 


THE MONASTERY. 


CHAPTER XV. 


Now, on my faith, this gear is all entangled. 

Like to the yarn-clew of the drowsy knitter, 

Dragged by the frolic kitten through the cabin 
While the good dame sits nodding b^er the fire ! 

Masters, attend ; 'twill crave some skill to clear it. 

Old Play. 

Edward, with the speed of one who doubts the stead- 
iness of his own resolution, hastened to prepare the horses 
for their departure, and at the same time thanked and 
dismissed the neighbours who had come to his assistance, 
and who were not a little surprised both at the sudden- 
ness of his proposed departure, and at the turn affairs had 
taken. 

“ Here’s cold fiospitality,” quoth Dan of the Howlet- 
hirst to his comrades ; “ I trow the Glendinnings may 
die and come alive right oft, ere I put foot in stirrup again 
for the matter.” 

Martin soothed them by placing food and liquor before 
them. They ate sullenly, however, and departed in bad 
humour. 

The joyful news that Halbert Glendinning lived, was 
quickly communicated through the sorrowing family. 
The mother wept and thanked Heaven alternately ; until 
her habits of domestic economy awakening as her feel- 
ings became calmer, she observed, “ It would be an un- 
co task to mend theyetts,and what were they to do while 
they were broken in that fashion ? At open doors does 
come in.” 

Tibb remarked, ‘‘ She aye thought Halbert was ower 
gleg at his weapon to be killed sae easily by ony Sir 
Piercie o’ them a’. They might say of these Southrons 
as they liked ; but they had not the pith and wind of a 
canny Scot, when it came to close grips.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


173 


On Mary Avenel the impression was inconceivably 
deeper. She had but newly learned to pray, and it 
seemed to her that her prayers had been instantly an- 
swered — that the compassion of Heaven, which she had 
learned to implore in the words of Scripture, had de- 
scended upon her after a manner almost miraculous, and 
recalled the dead from the grave at the sound of her 
lamentations. There was a dangerous degree of enthusi- 
asm in this strain of feeling, but it originated in the purest 
devotion. 

A silken and embroidered muffler, one of the few 
articles of more costly attire which she possessed, was 
devoted to the purpose of wrapping up and concealing 
the sacred volume, which henceforth she was to regard 
as her chiefest treasure, lamenting only that, for want of 
a fitting interpreter, much must remain to her a book 
closed and a fountain sealed. She was unaware of the 
yet greater danger she incurred, of putting an imperfect 
or even false sense upon some of the doctrines which 
appeared most comprehensible. But Heaven had pro- 
vided against both these hazards. 

While Edward was preparing the horses, Christie 
of the Clint-hill again solicited his orders respecting the 
reformed preacher, Henry Warden, and again the worthy 
Monk laboured to reconcile in his own mind the compas- 
sion and esteem which, almost in spite of him, he could 
not help feeling for his former companion, with the duty 
which he owed to the church. The unexpected resolu- 
tion of Edward had removed, he thought, the chief ob- 
jection to his being left at Glendearg. 

‘‘ ]f I carry this Wellwood, or Warden, to the Monas- 
tery,” he thought, he must die — die in his heresy — 
perish body and soul : And though such a measure was 
once thought advisable, to strike terror into the heretics, 
yet such is now their daily-increasing strength, that it 
may rather rouse them to fury and to revenge. True, 
he refuses to pledge himself to abstain from sowing his 
tares among the wheat ; but the ground here is too barren 
15 * VOL. II. 


174 


the monastery. 


to receive them. I fear not his making impression on 
these poor women, the vassals of the church, and bred up 
in due obedience to her behests. The keen, searching, 
inquiring, and bold disposition of Edward, might have 
afforded fuel to the fire ; but that is removed, and there 
is nothing left which the flame may catch too. Thus 
shall he have no power to spread his evil doctrines abroad, 
and yet his life shall be preserved, and it may he his soul 
rescued as a prey from the fowler’s net. 1 will myself 
contend with him in argument ; for when we studied in 
common, I yielded not to him, and surely the cause for 
which I struggle will support me, were 1 yet more weak 
than I deem myself. VVere this man reclaimed from his 
errors, an hundred-fold more advantage would arise to 
the church from his spiritual regeneration, than from his 
temporal death.” 

Having finished these meditations, in which there was 
at once goodness of disposition and narrowness of prin- 
ciple, a considerable portion of self-opinion, and no small 
degree of self-delusion, the Sub-Prior commanded the 
prisoner to be brought into his presence. 

“ Henry,” he said, “ whatever a rigid sense of duty 
may demand of me, ancient friendship and Christian 
compassion forbid me to lead thee to assured death. 
Thou wert wont to be generous, though stern and stub- 
born in thy resolves ; let not thy sense of what thine 
own thoughts term duty, draw thee farther than mine have 
done. Remember, that every sheep whom thou shall 
here lead astray from the fold, will be demanded in time 
and through eternity of him who hath left thee the lib- 
erty of doing such evil. I ask no engagement of thee, 
save that thou remain a prisoner on thy w^ord at this 
tower, and wilt appear when summoned.” 

Thou hast found an invention to bind my hands,” 
replied the preacher, “ more sure than would have been 
the heaviest shackles in the prison of thy convent. I will 
not rashly do what may endanger thee with thy unhappy 
superiors, and I will be the more cautious, because, if we 
had farther opportunity of conference, I trust thine own 


THE MONASTERY. 


175 


soul may yet be rescued as a brand from the burning, 
and that, casting from thee the livery of Anti-Christ, that 
trader in human sins and human souls, 1 may yet assist 
thee to lay hold on the Rock of Ages.” 

The Sub-Prior heard the sentiment, so similar to that 
which had occurred to himself, with the same kindling 
feelings with which the game-cock hears and replies to 
the challenge of his rival. 

“ I bless God and Our Lady,” said he, drawing him- 
self up, “ that my faith is already anchored on that Rock 
on which St. Peter founded his church.” 

“ It is a perversion of the text,” said the eager Henry 
Warden, “ grounded on a vain play upon words — a 
most idle paronomasia.” 

The controversy would have been rekindled, and in all 
probability — for what can insure the good temj)er and 
moderation of polemics ? — might have ended in the 
preacher’s being transported a captive to the Monastery, 
had not Christie of the Clint-hill observed, it was growing 
late, and that he having to descend the glen, which had 
no good reputation, cared not greatly for travelling there 
after sunset. The Sub-Prior, therefore, stifled his desire 
of argument, and again telling the preaclier that he 
trusted to his gratitude and generosity, he bade him fare 
well. 

“ Be assured, mine old friend,” replied Warden, 
“ that no willing act of mine shall be to thy prejudice. 
But if my Master shall place work before me, 1 must 
obey God rather than man.” 

These two men, both excellent from natural disposition 
and acquired knowledge, had more points of similarity 
than they themselves would have admitted. In truth, the 
chief distinction betwixt them was, that the Catholic., 
defending a religion which afforded little interest to the 
feelings, had, in his devotion to the cause he espoused, 
more of the head than of the heart, and was politic, cau- 
tious, and artful ; while the Protestant, acting under the 
strong impulse of more lately adopted conviction, and 
feeling, as he justly might, a more animated confidence in 


I7G 


THE MONASTERY. 


his cause, was enthusiastic, eager, and precipitate in his 
desire to advance it. The priest would have been con- 
tented to defend, the preacher aspired to conquer ; and, 
of course, the impulse by which the latter was governed, 
was more active and more decisive. They could not part 
from each other without a second pressure of hands, and 
each looked in the face of his old companion, as he bade 
him adieu, wdth a countenance strongly expressive of 
sorrow, affection, and pity. 

Father Eustace then explained briefly to Dame Glen- 
dinning, that this person was to be her guest for some 
days, forbidding her and her whole household, under 
high spiritual censures, to hold any conversation with him 
on religious subjects, but commanding her to attend to 
his wants in all other particulars. 

“ ]\lay Our Lady forgive me, reverend father,” said 
Dame Glendinning, somewhat dismayed at this intelli- 
gence, “ but I must needs say, that ower mony guests 
have been the ruin of mony a house, and 1 trow they 
will bring down Glendearg. First came the Lady of 
Avenel~(her soul be at rest)— she meant nae ill — but she 
brought with her as mony bogles and fairies, as hae kept 
the liouse in care ever since, sae that w^e have been living 
as it were in a dream. And then came that English 
knight, if it please you, and if he hasna killed my son 
outright, he has chased him aff the gate, and it may be 
lang eneugh ere I see him again — forby the damage 
done to outer door and inner door. And now your rev- 
erence has given me the charge of a heretic, who, it is 
like, may bring the great horned devil himself down upon 
us all ; and they say that it is neither door nor window 
will serve him, but he will take away the side of the auld 
tower along with him. Nevertheless, reverend father, 
your pleasure is doubtless to be done to our power.” 

“ Go to, woman,” said the Sub-Prior ; “ send for 
workmen from the clachan, and let them charge the ex- 
pense of their repairs to the Community, and I will give 
the treasurer warrant to allow them. Moreover, in "set- 
tling the rental-mails, and feu-duties, thou shall have 


THE MONASTERY. 


177 


allowance for the trouble and charges to which thou art 
now put, and I will cause strict search to be made after 
thy son.” 

The Dame curtsied deep and low at each favourable 
expression ; and when the Sub-Prior had done speak- 
ing, she added her farther hope that the Sub-Prior would 
hold some communing with her gossip the Miller, con- 
cerning the fate of his daughter, and expound to him that 
the chance had by no means happened through any neg- 
ligence on her part. 

“ I sair doubt me, father,” she said, ‘‘ whether Mysie 
finds her way back to the mill in a hurry ; but it was all 
her father’s own fault that let her run lamping about tlie 
country, riding on bare-backed naigs, and never settling 
to do a turn of wark within doors, unless it were to dress 
dainties at dinner-time for his ain kyte.” 

“ You remind me, dame, of another matter of urgen- 
cy,” said Father Eustace ; “ and, God knows, too many 
of them press on me at this moment. This English 
knight must be sought out, and explanation given to him 
of these most strange chances. The giddy girl must also 
be recovered. If she hath suffered in reputation by this 
unhappy mistake, I will not hold myself innocent of the 
disgrace. Yet how to find them out I know not.” 

“ So please you,” said Christie of the Clint-hill, “ I 
am willing to take the chase, and bring them back by fair 
means or foul ; for though you have always looked as 
black as night at me, whenever we have forgathered, yet 
I have not forgotten that had it not been for you, my neck 
would have kend the weight of my four quarters. If 
any man can track the tread of them, I will say in the 
face of both Merse and Teviotdale, and take the Forest 
to boot, I am that man. But first I have matters to 
treat of on my master’s score, if you will permit me to 
ride down the glen with you.” 

“ Nay, but, my friend,” said the Sub-Prior, ‘‘ thou 
sliould’st remember I have but slender cause to trust thee 
for a companion through a place so solitary,” 


178 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ Tush ! tush !” said the Jackman, “ fear me not ; 
I had the worst too surely to begin that sport again. 
Besides, have I not said a dozen of times, I owe you a 
life ? and when I owe a man either a good turn ora bad, 
I never fail' to pay it sooner or later. Moreover, beshrew 
me if I care to go alone down the glen, or even with my 
troopers, who are, every loon of them, as much devil’s 
bairns as myself ; whereas, if your reverence, since 
that is the word, take beads and psalter, and 1 come along 
with jack and spear, you will make the devils take the 
air, and I will make all human enemies take the earth.” 

Edward here entered, and told his reverence that his 
horse was prepared. At this instant his eye caught his 
mother’s, and the resolution which he had so strongly 
formed was staggered when he recollected the necessity 
of bidding her farewell. The Sub-Prior saw his embar- 
rassment, and came to his relief. 

“ Dame,” said he, “ I forgot to mention that your son 
Edward goes with me to Saint Mary’s, and will not re- 
turn for two or three days.” 

“You’ll be wishing to help him to recover his broth- 
er ? May the saints reward your kindness !” 

The Sub-Prior returned the benediction which, in this 
instance, he had not very well deserved, and he and Ed- 
ward set forth on their route. They w’ere presently fol- 
lowed by Christie, who came up with his followers at 
such a speedy pace, as intimated sufficiently that his wish 
to obtain spiritual convoy through the glen, was extreme- 
ly sincere. He had, however, other matters to stimulate 
his speed, for he was desirous to communicate to the Sub- 
Prior a message from his master Julian, connected with 
the delivery of the prisoner Warden ; and having re- 
quested the Sub-Prior to ride with him a few yards be- 
fore Edward, and the troopers of bis own party, he thus 
addressed him, sometimes interrupting his discourse, in 
a manner testifying that his fear of supernatural beings 
was not altogether lulled to rest, by his confidence in the 
sanctity of bis fellow-traveller. 


THE MOXASTERY. 


179 


“ My master,” said the rider, “ deemed he had sent 
you an acceptable gift in that old heretic preacher ; but 
it seems, from the slight care you have taken of him, that 
you make small account of the boon.” 

“ Nay,” said the Sub-Prior, “ do not thus judge of 
it. The Community must account highly of the service, 
and will reward it to thy master in goodly fashion. But 
this man and I are old friends, and I trust to bring him 
back from the paths of perdition.” 

“ Nay,” said the moss-trooper, “ when I saw you shake 
hands at the beginning, I counted that you would fight it all 
out in love and honour, and that there would be no ex- 
treme dealings betwixt ye — however, it is all one to my 
* master — Saint Mary ! what call you yon. Sir Monk ?” 

“ The branch of a willow streaming across the path 
betwixt us and the sky.” 

“ Beshrew me,” said Christie, “ if it looked not like 
a man’s hand holding a sword. But, touching my mas- 
ter, he, like a prudent man, hath kept himself aloof in 
these broken times, until he could see with precision what 
footing he was to stand upon. Right tempting offers he 
hath had from the Lords of Congregation, whom you 
call heretics ; and at one time he was minded, to be plain 
with you, to have taken their way — for he was assured 
that the Lord James^was coming this road at the head of 
a round body of cavalry. And accordingly Lord James 
did so far reckon upon him, that he sent this man War- 
den, or whatsoever be his name, to my master’s protec- 
tion, as an assured friend ; and, moreover, with tidings 
that he himself w'as marching hitherward at the head of 
a strong body of horse.” 

“ Now, Our Lady forfend !” said the Sub-Prior, 

“ Amen !” answered Christie, in some trepidation, 

“ did your reverence see aught ?” 

“ Nothing whatever,” replied the Monk, “ it was thy 
tale which wrested from me that exclamation.” 

“ And it was some cause,” replied he of the Clint-hill, 
for if Lord James should come hither, your Halidome 
would smoke for it. But be of good cheer — that expedition 


180 


THE MONASTERY. 


IS ended before it was begun. The Baron of Avenel had 
sure news that Lord James has been fain to march west- 
ward with his merry-men, to protect Lord Semple against 
Cassilis and the Kennedies. By my faith, it will cost 
him a brush ; for wot ye what they say of that name — 

* ’Twixt Wigton and the town of Ayr, 

Portpatrick and the crulves of Cree, 

No man need think for to bide there, 

Unless he court Saint Kennedies ” 

“ Then,” said the Sub-Prior, “ the Lord James’s 
purpose of coming southwards being broken, cost this per- 
son, Henry Warden, a cold reception at Avenel Castle.” 

“ It would not have been altogether so rough a one,” 
said the moss-trooper ; “ for my master was in heavy 
thought what to do in these unsettled times, and would 
scarce have hazarded misusing a man sent to him by so 
terrible a leader as the Lord James. But, to speak the 
truth, some busy devil tempted the old man to meddle 
with my master’s Christian liberty of handfasting with 
Catherine of New^port. So that broke the wand of peace 
between them, and now ye may have my master, and all 
the force he can make, at your devotion, for Lord James 
never forgave wrong done to him ; and if he come by 
the upperhand, he will have Julian’s head if there were 
never another of the name, as it is like there is not, ex- 
cepting the bit slip of a lassie yonder. And now I have 
told you more of my master’s affairs than he would thank 
me for ; but you have done me a frank turn once, and 
I may need one at your hands again.” 

“ Thy frankness,” said the Sub-Prior, ‘‘ shall surely 
advantage thee ; for much it concerns the church in 
these broken times to know the purposes and motives of 
those around us. But what is it that thy master expects 
from us in reward of good service ; for 1 esteem him 
one of those who are not willing to work without their 
hire 

“ Nay, that 1 can tell you flatly ; for I-ord James had 
promised him, in case he would be of his faction in these 


THE MONASTERY. 


181 


parts, an easy tack of theteind-sheaves of his own Bar- 
ony of Avenel, together with the lands of Cranberry- 
moor, which lie intersected with his own. And he will 
look for no less at your hand.” 

“ But there is old Gilbert of Cranberry-moor,” said 
the Sub-Prior, “ what are we to make of him The 
heretic Lord James may take on him to dispone upon the 
goods and lands of the Halidome at his pleasure, be- 
cause, doubtless, but for the protection of God, and the 
baronage which yet remain faithful to their creed, he may 
despoil us of them by force ; but while they are the pro- 
perty of the Community, we may not take steadings from 
ancient and faithful vassals, to gratify the covetousness of 
those who serve God only from the lucre of gain.” 

By the mass,” said Christie, “ it is well talking. Sir 
Priest ; but when ye consider that Gilbert has but two 
half-starved cowardly peasants to follow him, andonlyan 
au!d jaded aver to ride upon, fitter for the plough than for 
manly service ; and that the Baron of Avenel never rides 
with fewer than ten jack-men at his back, and oftener 
with fifty, bodin in all that effeirs to war as if they were to 
do battle for a kingdom, and mounted on nags that nicker 
at the clash of a sword as if it were the clank of the lid 
of a corn-chest — I say, when ye have computed all this, 
you may guess which course will best serve your Mon- 
astery.” 

“ Friend,” said the Monk, “ T would willingly pur- 
chase thy master’s assistance on his own terms, since times 
leave us no better means of defence against the sacrile- 
gious spoliation of heresy ; but to take from a poor man 
his patrimony” 

“ For that matter,” said the rider, “ his seat would 
scarce be a soft one, if my master thought that Gilbert’s 
interest stood betwixt him and what he wishes. The 
Halidome has land enough, and Gilbert may be quartered 
elsewhere. 

“We will consider the possibility of so disposing the 
matter,” said the Monk, “ and will expect in conse- 
16 VOL. II. 


182 


THE MONASTERY. 


quence your master’s most active assistance, with all the 
Ibllowers he can make, to join in the defence of the Hal- 
idome, against any force by which it may be threatened.” 

“ A man’s hand and a mailed glove on that,”^said the 
jack-man. “ They call us marauders, thieves, and what 
not ; but the side we take we hold by.— And I will be 
blithe when my Baron comes to a point which side he 
will take, for the castle is a kind of hell, (Our Lady for- 
give me for naming such a word in this place !) while 
be is in his mood, studying how he may best advantage 
himself. And now. Heaven be praised, we are in the 
open valley, and I may swear a round oath, should aught 
happen to provoke it.” 

“ My friend,” said the Sub-Prior, “ thou hast little 
merit in abstaining from oaths or blasphemy, if it be only 
out of fear of evil spirits.” 

“ Nay, 1 am not quite a church vassal yet,” said the 
jack-man, “ and if you link the curb too tight on a 
young horse, I promise you he will rear. Why, it is 
much for me to forbear old customs on any account 
whatever.” 

The night being fine, they forded the river at the spot 
where the Sacristan met witlrjiis unhappy encounter with 
the Spirit. As soon as they arrived at the gate of the 
Monastery, the porter in wailing eagerly exclaimed, 
“ Reverend father, the Lord Abbot is most anxious for 
your presence.” 

“ Let these strangers be carried to the great ball,” said 
the Sub-Prior, “ and be treated with the best by the Cellar- 
er ; reminding them, however, of that modesty and decen- 
cy of conduct which becometh guests in a house like this.” 

“ But the Lord Abbot demands you instantly, my 
venerable brother,” said Father Philip, arriving in great 
haste. “ I have not seen him more discouraged or des- 
olate of counsel since the field of Pinkie-cleugh was 
stricken.” 

‘‘ I come, my good brother, I come,” said Father 
Eustace. “ I pray thee, good brother, let this youth 
Edward Glendinriing be conveyed to the Chamber of the 


THE MONASTERY. 


183 


Novices, and placed under their instructer. God hath 
touched his heart, and he proposeth laying aside the van- 
ities of the world, to become a brother of our holy order ; 
which, if his good parts be matched with fitting docility 
and humility, he may one day live to adorn.” 

‘‘ My very venerable brother,” exclaimed old Father 
Nicholas, who came hobbling with a third summons to the 
Sub-Prior, “ I pray thee to hasten to our worshipful Lord 
Abbot. The holy patroness be with us ! never saw I 
Abbot of the House of Saint Mary’s in such consterna- 
tion ; and yet I remember me well when Father Ingil- 
ram had the news of Flodden-field.” 

“ I come, I come, venerable brother,” said Father 
Eustace — And having repeatedly ejaculated “ 1 come !” 
.le at last went to the Abbot in good earnest. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

It is not texts will do it — Church artillery 
Are silenced soon by real ordnance, 

And canons are but vain opposed to cannon. 

Go, coin your crosier, melt your church plate down, 

Bid the starved soldier banquet in your halls. 

And quaff your long-saved hogsheads — Turn them out 
Thus primed with your good cheer, to gtxard your wall. 

And they will venture for't. 

Old Platj. 

The Abbot received his counsellor with a tremulous 
eagerness of welcome, which announced to the Sub-Prior 
an extreme agitation of spirits, and the utmost need of 
good counsel. There was neither mazerdish nor stand- 
ing-cup upon the little table, at the elbow of his huge 
chair of state ; his beads alone lay there, and it seemed 
as if he had been telling them in his extremity of dis- 
tress. Beside the beads was placed the mitre of the 


184 


THE MONASTERY. 


Abbot, of an antique 'form, and blazing with precious 
stones, and the rich and highly-embossed crosier rested 
against the same table. 

The Sacristan and old Father Nicholas had followed 
the Sub-Prior into the Abbot’s apartment, perhaps with 
the hope of learning something of the important matter 
which seemed to be in hand. They were not mistaken ; 
for, after having ushered in the Sub-Prior, and being 
themselves in the act of retiring, the Abbot made them 
a signal to remain. 

“ My brethren,” he said, “ it is well known to you 
with what painful zeal we have overseen the weighty 
affairs of this house committed to our unworthy hand; — 
your bread hath been given to you, and your water hath 
been sure — I have not wasted the revenues of the Con- 
vent on vain pleasures, as hunting or hawking, or in 
change of rich cope or alb, or in feasting idle bards and 
jesters, saving those, who, according to old wont, were 
received in time of Christmas and Easter. Neither have 
I enriched either mine own relations nor strange women, 
at the expense of the patrimony.” 

“ There hath not been such a Lord Abbot,” said Fath- 
er Nicholas, “ to my knowledge, since the days of 
Abbot Ingilram, who” 

At that portentous word, which always preluded a long- 
story, the Abbot broke in. 

“ May God have mercy on his soul ! we talk not 
of him now. What 1 would know of ye, my brethren, is, 
whether I have, in your mind, faithfully discharged the 
duties of mine office .^” 

“ There has never been subject of complaint,” an- 
swered the Sub-Prior. 

The Sacristan, more diffuse, enumerated the various 
acts of indulgence and kindness which the mild govern- 
ment of Abbot Boniface had conferred on the brother- 
hood of Saint Mary’s— the indulgentioi — the graiias — 
the biberes — the weekly mess of boiled almonds — the 
enlarged accommodation of the refectory — the better ar- 
rangement of the cellarage — the improvement of the 


THE MOXASTEllY. 


185 


revenue of the Monastery — the diminution of the priva- 
tions of tlie brethren. 

“ You might have added, my brother,” said the Ab- 
bot, listening with melancholy acquiescence to the detail 
of his own merits, “ that I caused to be built that curious 
screen, which secureth the cloisters from the north-east 
wind. But all these things avail nothing — As we 
read in holy Maccabee, Capta est civiias per voluntatem 
Dei, It hath cost me no little thought, no common toil, 
to keep these weighty matters in such order as you have 
seen them — there was both barn and binn to be kept full 
— Infirmary, dormitory, guest-hall, and refectory, to be 
looked to — processions to be made, confessions to be 
heard, strangers to be entertained, Venice to be granted 
or refused ; and I warrant me, when every one of you 
was asleep in your cell, the Abbot liath lain awake for a 
full hour by the bell, thinking how these matters might be 
ordered seemly and suitably.” 

“ May we ask, reverend my lord,” said the Sub-Prior, 
“ what additional care has now been thrown upon you, 
since your discourse seems to point that way .^” 

“ Marry, this is it,” said the Abbot. “ The talk is 
not now of biberes, or of caritas, or of boiled almonds, 
but of an English band coming against us from Hexham, 
commanded by Sir John Foster ; nor is it of the screen- 
ing us from the east wind, but how to escape Lord James 
Stuart, who cometh to lay waste and destroy with his 
heretic soldiers.” 

“ I thought that purpose had been broken by the feud 
between Semple and the Kennedies,” said the Sub-Prior, 
hastily. 

“They have accorded that matter at the expense of the 
church as usual,” said the Abbot ; “ the Earl of Cassilis 
is to have the teind sheaves of his lands, which were 
given to the house of Crosraguel, and he has stricken 
hands with Stuart, who is now called Murray. — Principes 
convenerunt unum adversus Dominum. — There are the 
letters.” 

16 * VOL. II. 


18G 


THE MOXASTEllY. 


The Sub-Prior took the lettersjwhiclihadccmeby an 
express messenger from the Primate of Scotland, wlio 
still laboured to uphold the tottering fabric of the system 
under which he was at length buried, and stepping to- 
wards the lamp, read them with an air of deep and settled 
attention — the Sacristan and Father Nicholas looked as 
helplessly at each other, as the denizens of the poultry 
yard when the hawk soars over it. The Abbot seemed 
bowed down with the extremity of sorrowful apprehen- 
sion, but kept his eye timorously fixed on the Sub-Prior, 
as if striving to catch some comfort from the expression of 
his countenance. When at length he beheld that, after 
a second intent perusal of the letters, he remained still 
silent and full of thought, he asked him in an anxious 
tone, “ What is to be done 

“ Our duty must be done,” answered the Sub-Prior, 
‘‘ and the rest is in the hands of God.” 

Our duty — our duty?” answered the Abbot, impa- 
tiently ; “ doubtless we are to do our duty, but what is 
that duty ? or how will it serve us f — Will bell, book, 
and candle, drive back the English heretics f or w ill 
Murray care for psalms and antiphonars f or can I fight 
for the Halidome, like Judas Maccabeus, against those 
profane Nicanors ? or send the Sacristan against this 
new Holofernes, to bring back his head in a basket .^” 

“ True, my Lord Abbot,” said the Sub-Prior, “ we 
cannot fight with carnal weapons, it is alike contrary to 
our habit and vow ; but we can die for our Convent and 
for our Order. Besides w^e can arm those who will and 
can fight. The English are but few in number, trusting, 
as it would seem, that they will be joined by Murray, 
whose march has been interrupted. If Foster, with his 
Cumberland and Hexham bandits, ventures to march 
into Scotland, to pillage and despoil our House, we will 
levy our vassals, and 1 trust shall be found strong enough 
to give him battle.” 

“ In the blessed name of Our Lady,” said the Abbot, 
“ think you that 1 am Petrus Eremita, to go forth the 
leader of an host 


THE MONASTERY. 


187 


‘‘ Nay,” said the Sub-Prior, “ let some man skilled 
in war lead our people — there is Julian Avenel, an ap- 
proved soldier.” 

“ But a scoffer, a debauched person, and, in brief, a 
man of Belial,” quoth the Abbot. 

“ Still,” said the Monk, “ we must use bis ministry in 
that to which he has been brought up. We can guerdon 
him richly, and indeed I already know the price of his 
service. The English, it is expected, will presently set 
forth, hoping here to seize upon Piercie Shafton, 
whose refuge being taken with us, they make the pretext 
of this unlieard-of inroad.” 

“ Is it even so?” said the Abbot ; “ I never judged 
that his body of satin and his brain of feathers boded us 
much good.” . 

“ Yet we must have his assistance, if possible,” said 
the Sub-Prior ; “ he may interest in our behalf the great 
Piercie of whose friendship he boasts, and that good and 
faithful Lord may break Foster’s purpose. I will des- 
patch the jack-man after him with all speed. — Chiefly, 
however, I trust to the military spirit of the land, 
which will not suffer peace to be easily broken on the 
frontier. Credit me, my Lord, it will bring to our side 
the hands of many, whose hearts may have gone astray 
after strange doctrines. The great chiefs and barons 
will be ashamed to let the vassals of peaceful monks fight 
unaided against the old enemies of Scotland.” 

“ It may be,” said the Abbot, that Foster will wait 
for Murray, whose purpose hitherward is but delayed for 
a short space.” 

“ By the rood, he will not,” said the Sub-Prior ; “ we 
know this Sir John Foster— a pestilent heretic, he will 
long to destroy the church — born a Borderer, he will 
thirst to plunder her of her wealth— a Border-warden, 
he will be eager to ride in Scotland. There are too 
many causes to urge him on. If he joins with Murray, 
he will have at best but an auxiliary’s share of the spoil — 
if he comes hither before him, he will reckon on the 
whole harvest of depredation as his own. Julian Avenel 


188 


THE MONASTERY. 


also has, as I have heard, some spite against Sir John 
Foster ; they will fight when they meet with double de- 
termination. Sacristan, send for our bailiff — Where is 
the roll of fencible men liable to do suit and service to 
the Halidome ? — Send off to the Baron of Meigallot ; 
he can raise threescore horse and better — Say to him 
the Monastery will compound with him for the customs 
of his bridge, which have been in controversy, if he will 
show himself a friend at such a point — And now, my 
lord, let us compute our possible numbers and those of 
the enemy, that human blood be not spilled in vain — Let 
us therefore calculate” 

“ My brain is dizzed with the emergency,” said the 
poor Abbot — “ I am not, T think, more a coward than 
others, so far as my own person is concerned : but speak 
to me of marching and collecting soldiers, and calculating 
forces, and you may as w'ell tell of it to the youngest 
novice of a nunnery. But my resolution is taken. 
Brethren,” he said, rising up and coming forward with 
that dignity which his comely person enabled him to as- 
sume, “ hear for the last time the voice of your Abbot 
Boniface. I have done for you the best that I could ; 
in quieter times I had perhaps done better, for it was for 
quiet that T sought the cloister, which has. been to me a 
place of turmoil, as much as if I had sat in the receipt 
of custom, or ridden forth as leader of an armed host. 
But now matters turn worse and worse, and I, as I grow 
old, am less able to struggle with them. Also, it be- 
comes me not to hold a place, whereof the duties, through 
my default or misfortune, may be but imperfectly filled 
by me. Wherefore 1 have resolved to demit this mine 
high office, so that the order of these matters may pres- 
ently devolve upon Father Eustatius here present, our 
well-beloved Sub-Prior ; and I now rejoice that he hath 
not been provided according to his merits elsewhere, 
seeing that I well hope he will succeed to the mitre and 
staff which it is my present purpose to lay down.” 

“ In the name of Our Lady, do nothing hastily, my 
lordl” said Father Nicholas — “ I do remember that when 


THE MONASTERY. 


189 


the worthy Abbot Ingilram, being in bis ninetieth year, 
for I warrant you be could remember when Benedict the 
Thirteenth was deposed, and being ill at ease and bed- 
rid, the brethren rounded in bis ear that be were better 
resign his office. And what said he, being a pleasant 
man ? marry, that while he could crook his little finger, 
he would keep hold of the crosier with it.” 

The Sacristan also strongly remonstrated against the 
resolution of his Superior, and set down the insufficiency 
he pleaded to the native modesty of his disposition. The 
Abbot listened in downcast silence ; even flattery could 
not win his ear. 

Father Eustace took a nobler tone with his discon- 
certed and dejected Superior. “ My Lord Abbot,” he 
said, “ if I have been silent concerning the virtues with 
which you have governed this house, do not think that I 
am unaware of them. 1 know that no man ever brought 
to your high office a more sincere wish to do well to* all 
mankind ; and if your rule has not been marked with 
the bold lines which sometimes distinguished your spirit- 
ual predecessors, their faults have equally been strangers 
to your character.” 

“ I did not believe,” said the Abbot, turning his looks 
to Father Eustace with some surprise, “ that you, father, 
of all men, would have done me this justice.” 

In your absence,” said the Sub-Prior, “ I have even 
done it more fully. Do not lose the good opinion which 
all men entertain of you, by renouncing your office when 
your care is most needed.” 

“ But, my brother,” said the Abbot, “ I leave a more 
able in my place.” 

“ That you dc not,” said Eustace : “ because it is not 
necessary you should resign, in order to possess the use 
of whatever experience or talent I may be accounted mas- 
ter of. I have been long enough in this profession to 
know that the individual qualities which any of us may 
have, are net his own, but the property of the Com- 
munity, and only so far useful when they promote the 
general advantage. If you care not in person, my lord, 


190 


THE MONASTERY. 


to deal with this troublesome matter, let me implore you 
to go instantly to Edinburgh, and make what friends you 
can in our behalf, while I in your absence will, as Sub- 
Prior, do my duty in defence of the Halidome. If I suc- 
ceed, may the honour and praise be yours, and if I fail, 
let the disgrace and shame be mine own.’’ 

The Abbot mused for a space, and then replied, — 
“ No, Father Eustatius, you shall not conquer me by 
your generosity. In times like these, this house must 
have a stronger pilotage than my weak hands afford ; and 
he who steers the vessel must be chief of the crew. 
Shame were it to accept the praise of other men’s la- 
bours ; and, in my poor mind, all the praise which can 
be bestowed on him who undertakes a task so perilous 
and perplexing, is a meed beneath his merits. Misfor- 
tune to him who would deprive him of an iota of it ! 
Assume, therefore, your authority to-night, and proceed 
in the preparations you judge necessary. Let the Chap- 
ter be summoned to-morrow after we have heard mass, 
and all shall be ordered as I have told you. Benedicite, 
my brethren ! — peace be with you ! May the new Ab- 
bot-expectant sleep as sound as he who is about to resign 
his mitre.” 

They retired, affected even to tears. The good Ab- 
bot had shown a point of his character to which they 
were strangers. 

Even Father Eustace had held his spiritual superior 
hitherto as a good-humoured, indolent, self-indulgent 
man, whose chief merit was the absence of gross faults ; 
so that this sacrifice of power to a sense of duty, even 
if a little alloyed by the meaner motives of fear and ap- 
prehended difficulties, raised him considerably in the 
Sub-Prior’s estimation. He even felt an aversion to 
profit by the resignation of the Abbot Boniface, and in 
a manner to rise on his ruins ; but this sentiment did not 
long contend with those which led him to recollect high- 
er considerations. It could not be denied that Boniface 
was entirely unfit for his situation in the present crisis ; 
and the Sub-Prior felt that he himself, acting merely as 


THE MONASTERY. 


191 


a delegate, could not well take the decisive measures 
which the time required ; the weal of the community there- 
fore demanded his elevation. If, besides, there crept in a 
feeling of an high dignity obtained, and the native ex- 
ultation of a haughty spirit called to contend with the 
imminent dangers attached to a post of such distinction, 
these sentiments were so cunningly blended and amalga- 
mated with others of a more disinterested nature, that as 
the Sub-Prior himself was unconscious of their agency, 
we, who have a regard for him, are not solicitous to de- 
tect it. 

The Abbot elect carried himself with more digni'ty than 
formerly, when giving such directions as the pressing cir- 
cumstances of the times required ; and those who ap- 
proached him could perceive an unusual kindling of his 
falcon eye, and an unusual flush upon his pale and faded 
cheek. With briefness and precision he wrote and dictated 
various letters to different barons, acquainting them with the 
meditated invasion of the Halidome by the English, and 
conjuring them to lend aid and assistance as in a common 
cause. The temptation. of advantage was held out to 
those whom he judged less sensible of the cause of 
honour, and all were urged by the motives of patriotism 
and ancient animosity to the English. The time had 
been when no such exhortations would have been neces- 
sary. But so essential was Elizabeth’s aid to the reform- 
ed party in Scotland, and so strong was that party almost 
everywhere, that there was reason to believe a great many 
would observe neutrality on the present occasion, even 
if they did not go the length of uniting with the English 
against the Catholics. 

When Father Eustace considered the number of the 
immediate vassals of the church whose aid he might legal- 
ly command, his heart sunk at the thoughts of ranking 
them under the banner of the fierce and profligate Julian 
Avenel. 

“ Were the young enthusiast Halbert Glendinning 
to be found,” thought Father Eustace in his anxiety, “I 
would have risked the battle under his leading, young as 


192 


THE MOXASTEPa". 


he is, and with better hope of God’s blessing. But the 
bailiff is now too infirm, nor know I a Chief of name 
whom 1 might trust in this important matter better than 
this Avenel.” — He touched a bell which stood on the 
table, and commanded Christie of the Clint-hill to be 
brought before him. “ Thou owest me a life,” said he 
to that person on his entrance, “ and I may do thee 
another good turn if thou be’st sincere with me.” 

Christie had already drained two standing-cups of wine 
which would, on another occasion, have added to the in- 
solence of his familiarity. But at present there was 
something in the augmented dignity of manner of Father 
Eustace, which imposed a restraint on him. Yet his an- 
swers partook of his usual character of undaunted assur- 
ance. He professed himself willing to return a true 
answer to all inquiries. 

“ Has the Baron (so styled) of Avenel any friendship 
with Sir John Foster, warden of the w^est marches of 
England f” 

“ Such friendship as is between the wild-cat and the 
terrier,” replied the rider. 

“ Will he do battle with him should they meet f” 

“ As surely,” afiswered Christie, “ as ever cock fought 
on Shrovetide-even.” 

“ And would he fight with Foster in the Church’s 
quarrel 

“ On any quarrel, or upon no quarrel whatever,” 
replied the jack-man. 

We will then write to him, letting him know, that 
if upon occasion of an apprehended incursion by Sir 
John Foster he will agree to join his force with ours, he 
shall lead our men, and be gratified for doing so to the 
extent of his wish. Yet one word more — Thou didst 
say thou couldst find out where the English knight Piercie 
Shafton has this day fled to F” 

“ That I can, and bring him back too, by fair means or 
force, as best likes your reverence.” 

“ No force must be used upon him. Within what 
time wilt thou find him out 


THE MONASTERY. 


193 


“ Within thirty hours, so he have not crossed the Lo- 
thian firth — If it is to do you a pleasure, I will set off 
directly, and wind him as a sleuth-dog tracks the moss- 
trooper,” answered Christie. 

“ Bring him hither then, and thou wilt deserve good 
at our hands, which I may soon have free means of be- 
stowing on thee.” 

“ Thanks to your reverence, I put myself in your rev- 
erence’s hands. We of the spear and snaffle walk some- 
thing recklessly through life ; but if a man were worse 
than he is, your reverence knows he must live, and that’s 
not to be done without shifting, I trow.” 

“ Peace, sir, and begone on thine errand — thou shalt 
have a letter from us to Sir Piercie.” 

Christie made two steps towards the door, then turning 
back and hesitating, like one who would make an imper- 
tinent pleasantry if he dared, he asked what he was to 
do with the wench Mysie Happer, whom the Southron 
knight had carried off with him. 

“ Am I to bring her hither, please your reverence ?” 

“ Hither, you malapert knave said the churchman ; 
“ remember you to whom you speak ?” 

“ No offence meant,” replied Christie ; ‘‘ but if such 
is not your will, I could carry her to Avenel Castle, 
where a well-favoured wench was never unwelcome.” 

“ Bring the unfortunate girl to her father’s, and break 
no scurril jests here,” said the Sub-Prior — “ See that 
thou guide her in all safety and honour.” 

“ In safety, surely,” said the rider, “ and in such 
honour as her out-break has left her. I bid your rever- 
ence farewell, I must be on horse before cock-crow.” 

“ What, in the dark ! — how knowest thou which way 
to go 

“ I tracked the Knight’s horse-tread as far as near to 
the ford, as we rode along together,” said Christie, 
“ and I observed the track turn to the northward. He 
is for Edinburgh I will warrant you — so soon as day-light 
comes 1 will be on the road again. It is a kenspeckel 
17 VOL. II. 


194 


THE MOXASTERY. 


hoof-mark, for the shoe was made by old Eckie of Can- 
nobie — I would swear to the curve of the cawker.” So 
saying, he departed. 

“ Hateful necessity,” said Father Eustace, looking 
after him, “ that obliges us to use such implements as 
these ! But, assailed as we are on all sides, and by all 
conditions of men, what alternative is left us ? — But now 
let me to my most needful task.” 

The Abbot elect accordingly sat down to write letters, 
arrange orders, and take upon him the whole charge of 
an institution which tottered to its fall, with the same 
spirit of proud and devoted fortitude wherewith the com- 
mander of a fortress, reduced nearly to the last extrem- 
ity, calculates what means remain to him to protract the 
fatal hour of successful storm. In the meanwhile Abbot 
Boniface, having given a few natural sighs to the down- 
fall of the pre-eminence he had so long enjoyed among 
his brethren, fell fast asleep, leaving the whole cares and 
toils of office to his assistant and successor. 


■ ■■ ■ — 

CHAPTER XVII. 

And when he came to broken briggs, 
lie slacks his bow and swam ; 

And when he came to grass growing, 
Set down his feet and ran. 

Gil Morrice. 


We return to Halbert Glendinning, who, as our read- 
ers may remember, took the high-road to Edinburgh. 
His intercourse with the preacher Henry Warden, from 
whom he received a letter at the moment of his deliver- 
ance, had been so brief, that he had not even learned 
the name of the nobleman to whose care he was recom- 
mended. Something like a name had been spoken in- 
deed, blithe had only comprehended that he was to meet 


THE MONASTERY. 


195 


the chief advancing towards the south, at the head of 
a party of horse. When day dawned on his journey, 
he was in tlie same uncertainty. A better scholar would 
have been informed by the address of the letter, but Hal- 
bert had not so far profited by Father Eustace’s lessons 
as to be able to decipher it. His mother-wit taught him 
that he must not, in such uncertain times, be too hasty in 
asking information of any one, and when, after a long 
day’s journey, night surprised him near a little village, he 
began to be dubious and anxious concerning the issue 
of his journey. 

In a poor country, hospitality is generally exercised 
freely, and Halbert, when he requested a night’s quar- 
ters, did nothing either degrading or extraordinary. The 
old woman to whom he made this request, granted it the 
more readily that she thought she saw some resemblance 
between Halbert and her son Saunders, who had been 
killed in one of the frays so common in the time. It is 
true, Saunders was a short, square-made fellow, with red 
hair and a freckled face, and somewhat bandy-legged, 
whereas the stranger was of a brown complexion, tall, 
and remarkably well made. Nevertheless, the widow 
was clear that there existed a general resemblance betwixt 
her guest and Saunders, and kindly pressed him to 
share of her evening cheer. A pedlar, a man of about 
forty years old, was also her guest, who talked with great 
feeling of the misery of pursuing such a profession as 
his in the time of war and tumult. 

“ We think much of knights and soldiers,” said he ; 

but the pedder-cofFe who travels the land has need of 
more courage than them all. I am sure he maun face 
mair risk, God help him. Here have I come this length, 
trusting the godly Earl of Murray would be on his march 
to the Borders, for he was to have guestened with the 
Baron of Avenel ; and instead of that comes news that 
he has gone westlandways about some tuilzie in Ayr- 
shire. And what to do I wot not ; for if I go to the south 
without a safeguard, the next bonny rider I meet might 
ease me of sack and pack, and maybe of my life to boot ; 


196 


THE MOJfASTEIlT. 


and then, if I try to strike across the moors, I may be as 
ill off before I can join myself to that good lord’s com- 
pany.” 

No one was quicker at catching a bint than Halbert 
Glendinning. He said he himself had a desire to go 
westward. The pedlar looked at him with a very doubt- 
ful air, when the old dame, who perhaps thought her 
young guest resembled the umquhile Saunders, not only 
in his looks, but in a certain pretty turn to slight-of-hand, 
which the defunct was supposed to have possessed, tip- 
ped him the wink, and assured the pedlar he need have 
no doubt that her young cousin was a true man. 

“ Cousin !” said the pedlar, “ I thought you said this 
youth had been a stranger.” 

“ 111 hearing makes ill rehearsing,” said the landlady ; 
“ he is a stranger to me by eye-sight, but that does not 
make him a stranger to me by blood, more especially 
seeing his likeness to my son Saunders, poor bairn.” 

The pedlar’s scruples and jealousies being thus remov- 
ed, or at least silenced, the travellers agreed that they 
would proceed in company together the next morning by 
day-break, the pedlar acting as a guide to Glendinning, 
and the youth as a guard to the pedlar, until they should 
fall in with Murray’s detachment of horse. It would 
appear that the landlady never doubted what was to be 
the event of this compact, for, taking Glendinning aside 
she charged him “ to be moderate with the puir body, 
but at all events not to forget to take a piece of black say, 
to make the auld wife a new rokelay.” Halbert laughed 
and took his leave. 

It did not a little appal the pedlar, when in the midst 
of a black heath, the young man told him the nature of 
the commission with which their hostess had charged him. 
He took heart, however, upon seeing the open, frank, 
and friendly demeanour of the youth, and vented his 
exclamations on the ungrateful old traitress. “ I gave 
her,” he said, “ yester-e’en, nae farther gane, a yard of 
that very black say, to make her a couvre-chef ; but I see 
it is ill done to teach the cat the way to the kirn ” 


THE MONASTERY. 


197 


Thus set at ease on the intentions of his companion, (for 
in those happy days the worst was always to be exnected 
Irom a stranger,) the pedlar acted as Halbert’s guide over 
moss and moor, over hill and many a dale, in such a di- 
rection as might best lead them towards the route of 
Murray’s parly. At length they arrived upon the side 
ot an eminence, which commanded a distant prospect 
over a tract of savage and desolate moorland, marshy 
and waste — an alternate change of shingly hill and level 
morass, only varied by blue stagnant pools of water. A 
road scarcely marked winded like a serpent through this 
wilderness, and the pedlar, pointing to it, said — “ The 
road from Edinburgh to Glasgow. Here we must wait, 
and if Murray and his train be not already passed by, 
we shall soon see trace of them, unless some new pur- 
pose shall have altered their resolution ; for in these 
blessed days no man, were he the nearest the throne, as 
the Earl of Murray may be, knows when he lays his 
head on his pillow at night where it is to lie upon the fol- 
lowing even.” 

They paused accordingly, and sat down, the pedlar 
cautiously using for a seat the box which contained 
his treasures, and not concealing from his companion 
that he wore under his cloak a pistolet hanging at his 
belt in case of need. He was courteous, however, and 
offered Halbert a share of the provisions which he car- 
ried about him for refreshment. They were of the 
coarsest kind — oat-bread baked into cakes, oat-meal 
slaked with cold water, an onion or two, and a morsel of 
smoked ham, completed the feast. But such as it was, 
no Scotsman of the time, had his rank been much higher 
than that of Glendinning, would have refused to share in 
it, especially as the pedlar produced, with a mysterious 
air, a tup’s-horn, which he carried slung from his shoul- 
ders, and which, when its contents were examined, pro- 
duced to each party a clam-shell-full of excellent usque- 
baugh — a liquor strange to Halbert, for the strong waters 
known in the south of Scotland came from France, and 
17 * VOL. II. 


198 


THE MOXASTERY. 


in fact such were but rarely used. The pedlar recom- 
mended it as excellent, said he had procured it in his last 
visit to the braes of Doune, where he had securely traded 
under the safe-conduct of the Laird of Buchanan. He 
also set an example to Halbert, by devoutly emptying the 
cup “ to the speedy downfall of Anti-Christ.” 

Their conviviality was scarce ended, ere a rising dust 
was seen on the road of which they commanded the 
prospect, and half a score of horsemen were dimly des- 
cried advancing at considerable speed, their casques 
glancing, and the points of their spears twinkling, as they 
caught a glimpse of the sun. 

“ These,” said the pedlar, “ must be the out-scourers 
of Murray’s party ; let us lie down in the peat-hag, and 
keep ourselves out of sight.” 

“ And why so said Halbert ; “ let us rather go 
down and make a signal to them.” 

“ God forbid !” replied the pedlar ; “ do you ken so 
ill the customs of our Scottish nation That plump of 
spears that are spurring on so fast are doubtless command- 
ed by some wild kinsman of Morton, or some such daring 
fear-nothing as neither regards God nor man. It is their 
business, if they meet with any enemies, to pick quarrels, 
and clear the way of them ; and the chief knows noth- 
ing of what happens, coming up with his more discreet 
and moderate friends, it may be a full mile in the rear. 
Were we to go near these lads of the laird’s belt, your 
letter would do you little good, and my pack would do me 
muckle black ill ; they would tirl every steek of claithes 
from our backs, fling us into a moss-hag with a stone at 
our heels, naked as the hour that brought us into this 
cumbered and sinful world, and neither Murray nor any 
other man ever the wiser. But if he did come to ken of 
it, what might he help it? it would be accounted a mere 
mistake, and there were all the moan made. O credit 
me, youth, that when men draw cold steel on each other 
in their native country, they neither can nor may dwell 
deeply on the offences of those whose swords are useful 
to them.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


199 


They suiFered therefore the vanguard, as it might be 
termed, of the Earl of Murray’s host to pass forward, 
and it was not long until a denser cloud of dust began to 
arise to the northward. “ Now,” said the pedlar, “ let 
us hurry dovvn the hill ; for to tell the truth,” said he, 
dragging Halbert along earnestly, “ a Scottish noble’s 
march is like a serpent — the head is furnished with fangs, 
and the tail hath its sting, the only harmless point of 
access is the main body.” 

‘‘ I will hasten as fast as you,” said the youth, 
“ but tell me why the rearward of such an army should 
be as dangerous as the van 

“ Because, as the van-guard consists of their picked 
wild desperates, resolute for mischief, such as neither 
fear God nor regard their fellow-creatures, but under- 
stand themselves bound to hurry from the road what- 
ever is displeasing to themselves, so the rear-guard con- 
sists of misproud serving-men, who, being in charge of 
the baggage, take care to amend by their exactions upon 
travelling-merchants and others, their own thefts on their 
masters’ property. You will hear the advanced enfans 
perdusy as the French call them, and so they are indeed, 
namely, children of the fall, singing unclean and fulsome 
ballads of sin and harlotrie. And then will come on the 
middleward, when you will hear the canticles and psalms 
sung by the reforming nobles, and the gentry, and honest 
and pious clergy, by whom they are accompanied. And 
last of all, you will find in the rear a legion of godless 
lacqueys, and palfreniers, and horse-boys, talking of 
nothing but dicing, drinking and drabbing.” 

As the pedlar spoke, they had reached the side of the 
high-road, and Murray’s main body was in sight, consist- 
ing of about three hundred horse, marching with great 
regularity, and in a closely compacted body. Some of 
the troopers wore the liveries of their masters, but this 
was not common. Most of them were dressed in such 
colours as chance dictated. But the majority being clad 
in blue cloth, and the whole armed with cuirass and back- 
plate, with sleeves of mail, gauntlets and poldroons, and 


200 


THE MONASTERY. 


either mailed hose or strong jack-bools, they had some- 
thing of an uniform appearance. Many of the leaders 
were clad in complete armour, and all in a certain half 
military dress, which no man of quality in those disturbed 
times ever felt himself sufficiently safe to abandon. 

The foremost of this party immediately rode up to the 
pedlar and to Halbert Glendinning, and demanded of 
them who they were. The pedlar told his story, the 
young Glendinning exhibited his letter, which a gentle- 
man carried to Murray. In an instant after, the word 
“ Halt was given through the squadron, and at once 
the onward heavy tramp, which seemed the most distinc- 
tive attribute of the body, ceased, and was heard no more. 
The command was announced that the troop should halt 
here for an hour to refresh themselves and their horses. 
The pedlar was assured of safe protection, and accom- 
modated with the use of a baggage horse. But at the 
same time he was ordered into the rear ; a command 
which he reluctantly obeyed, and not without wringing 
pathetically the hand of Halbert as he separated from 
him. 

The young heir of Glendearg was in the meanwhile 
conducted to a plot of ground more raised, and therefore 
drier than the rest of the moor. Here a carpet was 
flung on the ground by way of table-cloth, and around it 
sat the leaders of the party, partaking of an entertainment 
as coarse, with relation to their rank, as that which Glendin- 
ning had so lately shared. Murray himself rose as he came 
forward, and advanced a step to meet him. This cele- 
brated person had in his appearance, as well as in his mind, 
much of the admirable qualities of James V. his father 
Had not the stain of illegitimacy rested upon his birth, 
he would have filled the Scottish throne with as much 
honour as any of the Stuart race. But History, while 
she acknowledges his high talents, and much that w^as 
princely, nay, royal, in his conduct, cannot forget that 
ambition led him farther than honour or loyalty warrant- 
ed. Brave amongst the bravest, fair in presence and in 


THE MONASTERY. 


201 


favour, skilfu] to manage the most intricate affairs, to 
attach to himself those who were doubtful, to stun and 
overwhelm, by the suddenness and intrepidity of his en- 
terprizes, those who were resolute in resistance, he attain- 
ed, and as to personal merit certainly deserved, the 
highest place in the kingdom. But he abused, under 
the influence of strong temptation, the opportunities 
which his sister Mary’s misfortunes and imprudence 
threw in his way; he supplanted his sovereign and bene- 
factress in her power, and his history affords us one of 
those mixed characters, in which principle was so often 
sacrificed to policy, that we must condemn the statesman 
while we pity and regret the individual. Many events in 
his life give likelihood to the charge that he himself aimed 
at the crown ; and it is too true, that he countenanced 
the fatal expedient of establishing an English, that is, a 
foreign and a hostile interest, in the councils of Scotland. 
But his death may be received as an atonement for his 
offences, and may serve to show how' much more safe is 
the person of a real patriot, than that of the mere head 
of a faction, who is accounted answerable for the offen- 
ces of his meanest attendants. 

When Murray approached, the young rustic was nat- 
urally abashed at the dignity of his presence. The com- 
manding form, and the countenance to which high and 
important thoughts w'ere familiar, the features which bore 
the resemblance of Scotland’s long line of kings, were 
well calculated to impress awe and reverence. His 
dress had little to distinguish him from the high-born nobles 
and barons by whom he was attended. A buff-coat, richly 
embroidered with silken lace, supplied the place of ar- 
mour ; and a massive gold chain, with its medal, hung 
round his neck. His black velvet bonnet was decorated 
with a string of large and fair pearls, and with a small 
tufted feather ; a long heavy sword was girt to his side, 
as the familiar companion of his hand. He wore gilded 
spurs on his boots, and these completed his equipment. 

“ This letter,” he said, “ is from the godly preacher 
of the word, Henry Warden, young man? is it not so 


202 


THE MOXASTERY. 


Halbert answered in the affirmative. “ And he writes 
to us, it would seem, in some strait, and refers us to you 
for the circumstances. Let us know, I pray you, how 
things stand with him.” 

In some perturbation Halbert Glendinning gave an 
account of the circumstances which had accompanied the 
preacher’s imprisonment. When he came to the discus- 
sion of the hand-fasting engagement, he was struck with 
the ominous and displeased expression of Murray’s brows, 
and, contrary to all prudential and politic rule, seeing 
something was wrong, yet not well aware what that 
something was, had almost stopped short in his narrative. 

“ What ails the fool said the Earl, drawing his 
dark-red eyebrows together, while the same dusky glow 
kindled on his brow — “ Hast thou not learned to tell a 
true tale without stammering ?” 

‘‘ So please you,” answered Halbert with considerable 
address, “ I have never before spoken in such a pres- 
ence.” 

“ He seems a modest youth,” said Murray, turning to 
his next attendant, “ and yet one who in a good cause 
will neither fear friend nor foe. Speak on, friend, and 
speak freely.” 

Halbert then gave an account of the quarrel hetwixt 
Julian Avenel and the preacher, which the Earl, biting 
his lip the while, compelled himself to listen to as a thing 
of indifference. At first he appeared even to take the 
part of the Baron. 

“ Henry Warden,” he said, “ is too hot in his zeal. 
The law both of God and man maketh allowance for cer- 
tain alliances, though not strictly formal, and the issue of 
such may succeed.” 

This general declaration he expressed, accompanying 
it with a glance around upon the few followers who were 
present at this interview. The most of them answered 
— “ there is no contravening tliat but one or two look- 
ed on the ground and were silent. Murray then turned 
again to Glendinning, commanding him to say what 
next chanced, and not to omit any particular. When 


THE MONASTERY. 


203 


he mentioned the manner in which Julian had cast from 
him his concubine, Murray drew a deep breath, set his 
teeth hard, and laid his hand on the hilt of his dagger. 
Casting his eyes once more around the circle, which was 
now augmented by one or two of the reformed preach- 
ers, he seemed to devour his rage in silence, and again 
commanded Halbert to proceed. When he came to de- 
scribe how Warden had been dragged to a dungeon, the 
Earl seemed to have found the point at which he might 
give vent to his own resentment, secure of the sympathy 
and approbation of all who were present. “ Judge you,” 
he said, looking to those around him, “ judge you, my 
peers, and noble gentlemen of Scotland, betwixt me and 
this Julian Avenel — he hath broken his own word, and 
hath violated my safe-conduct — and judge you also, my 
reverend brethren, he hath put his hand forth upon a 
preacher of the gospel, and perchance may sell his blood 
to the worshippers of Anti-Christ!” 

“ Let him die the death of a traitor,” said the secular 
chiefs, “ and let his tongue be struck through with the 
hangman’s fiery iron to avenge his perjury!” 

“ Let him go down to his place with Baal’s priests,” 
said the preachers, “ and be his ashes cast into Tophel!” 

Murray heard them with the smile of expected re- 
venge 5 yet it is probable that the brutal treatment of the 
female, whose circumstances somewhat resembled those 
of the Earl’s own mother, had its share in the grim 
smile which curled his sun-burnt cheek and his haughty 
lip. To Halbert Glendinning, when his narrative was 
finished, he spoke with great kindness. . 

“ He is a bold and gallant youth,” said he to those 
around, “ and formed of the stuff which becomes a 
bustling time. There are periods when men’s spirits 
shine bravely through them. I will know something 
more of him.” 

He questioned him more particularly concerning the 
Baron of Avenel’s probable forces — the strength of his 
castle — the dispositions of his next heir, and this brought 
necessarily forward the sad history of his brother s daugh- 


204 


THE MOXASTERT. 


ter, Mary Avenel, which was told with an embarrassment 
that did not escape Murray. 

“ Ha ! Julian Avenel,” he said, “ and do you pro- 
voke my resentment, when you have so much m6re rea- 
son to deprecate my justice ! I knew Walter Avenel, a 
true Scotsman and a good soldier. Our sister, the 
Queen, must right his daughter ; and W'ere her land re- 
stored, she would be a fitting bride to some brave man 
who may better merit our favour than the traitor Julian.” 
Then looking at Halbert, he said, “ Art thou of gentle 
blood, young man V* 

Halbert, with a faltering and uncertain voice, began 
to speak of his distant pretensions to claim a descent from 
the ancient Glendonwynes of Galloway, when Murray 
interrupted him with a smile. 

“ Nay — nay — leave pedigrees to bards and heralds. 
In our days, each man is the son of his own deeds. 
The glorious light of reformation hath shone alike on 
prince and peasant ; and peasant as well as prince may 
be illustrated by fighting in its defence. It is a stirring 
world, where all may advance themselves who have stout 
hearts and strong arms. Tell me frankly why thou hast 
left thy father’s house.” 

Halbert Glendinning made a frank confession of his 
duel with Piercie Shafton, and mentioned his supposed 
death. 

“ By my hand,” said Murray, “ thou art a bold spar- 
row-hawk to match thee so early with such a kite as 
Piercie Shafton. Queen Elizabeth would give her glove 
filled with gold crowns to know that meddling coxcomb 
to be under the sod. Would she not, Morton .^” 

“ Ay, by my word, and esteem her glove a better 
gift than the crowns,” replied Morton, “ which few Bor- 
der lads like this fellow will esteem just valuation.” 

“ But what shall we do with this young homicide ?” 
said Murray ; “ what will our preachers say ?” 

“ Tell them of Moses and of Benaiah,” said Morton ; 
“ it is but the smiting of an Egyptian when all is said 
out.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


205 


“ Let it be so,” said Murray, laughing ; “ but we will 
bury the tale as the prophet did the body in the sand. 
I will take care of this swankie. Be near to us. Glen- 
dinning, since that is thy name. We retain thee as a 
squire of our household. The master of our horse will 
see thee fully equipped and armed.” 

During the expedition which he was now engaged in, 
Murray found several opportunities of putting Glendin- 
ning’s courage and presence of mind to the test, and he 
began to rise so rapidly in his esteem, that those who 
knew the Earl considered the youth’s fortune as certain. 
One step only was wanting to raise him to a still higher 
degree of confidence and favour — it was the abjuration 
of the Popish religion. The ministers who attended up- 
on Murray, and formed his chief support amongst the peo- 
ple, found an easy convert in Halbert Glendinning, who, 
from his earliest days, had never felt much devotion to- 
wards the Catholic faith, and who listened eagerly to 
more reasonable views of religion. By thus adopting 
the faith of his master, he rose higher in his favour, and 
was constantly about his person during his prolonged stay 
in the west of Scotland, which the intractability of those 
whom the Earl had to deal with, protracted from day to 
day, and week to week. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Faint the din of battle bray'd 
Distant down the hollow wind ; 

War and terror fled before, 

Wounds and death were left behind. 

Penrose. 

The autumn of the year was well advanced, when the 
Earl of Morton, one morning, rather unexpectedly enter- 
18 VOL. II. 


206 


Tiy-: MONASTERY. 


ed the antechamber'vof Murray, in which Halbert Glen- 
dinning tva^in waiting. 

‘‘ Call your master, Halbert,” said the Earl ; “ I have 
news for him from Teviotdale ; and for you too, Glendin- 
ning. — News ! news ! my Lord of Murray !” he exclaim- 
ed at the door of the Earl’s bed- room ; “ come forth in- 
stantly.” The Earl appeared, and greeted his ally, 
demanding eagerly his tidings. 

“ I have had a sure friend with me from the south,” 
said Morton ; “ he has been at Saint Mary’s Monastery, 
and brings important tidings.” 

“ Of what complexion ?” said Murray, “ and can you 
trust the bearer ?” 

“ He is faithful, on my life,” said Morton ; “ I wish 
all around your lordship may prove equally so.” 

“ At what, and whom, do you point ?” said Murray. 

“ Here is the Egyptian of trusty Halbert Glendinning, 
our Southland Moses, come alive again, and flourishing, 
gay and bright as ever, in that Teviotdale Goshen, the 
Halidorne of Kennaquhair.” 

“ What mean you, my lord ?” said Murray. 

“ Only that your new henchman has put a false tale 
upon you. Piercie Shafton is alive and well ; by the 
same token that the gull is thought to be detained there 
by love to a miller’s daughter, who roamed the country 
with him in disguise.” 

“ Glendinning,” said Murray, bending his brow into 
bis darkest frown, “ thou hast not, I trust, dared to bring 
me a lie in thy mouth, in order to win my confidence!” 

“ My lord,” said Halbert, “ I am incapable of a lie. 
I should choke on one were my life to require that I pro 
nounced it. I say, that this sword of my father was 
through the body — the point came out behind his back 
— the hilt pressed upon his breast-bone. And 1 will 
plunge it as deep in the body of any one who shall dare 
to charge me with falsehood.” 

“ How, fellow !” said Morton, wouldst thou beard a 
nobleman 


THE MONASTERY. 


207 


“ Be silent, Halbert,” said Murray, ‘‘ and you, my lord 
of M6rton, forbear bim. I see truth written on bis brow.” 

“ I wish the inside of the manuscript may correspond 
with the superscription,” replied his more suspicious ally. 
“ Look to it, my lord, you will one day lose your life by 
too much confidence.” 

“ And you will lose your friends by being too readily 
suspicious,” answered Murray. “ Enough of this — let 
me hear thy tidings.” 

“ Sir John Foster,” said Morton, “ is about to send a 
party into Scotland to waste the Halidome.” 

“ How ! without waiting my presence and permission.?” 
said Murray — “ he is mad — Will he come as an enemy 
into the Queen’s country .?” 

“ He has Elizabeth’s express orders,” answered Mor- 
ton, “ and they are not to be trifled with. Indeed, his 
march has been more than once projected and laid aside 
during the time we have been here, and has caused much 
alarm at Kennaquhair. Boniface, the old Abbot, has 
resigned, and whom think you they have chosen in his 
place .?” 

“ No one surely,” said Murray ; “ they v/ould pre- 
sume to hold no election until the Queen’s pleasure and 
mine were known .?” 

Morton shrugged his shoulders — “ They have chosen 
the pupil of old Cardinal Beatoun, that wily determined 
champion of Rome, the bosom-friend of our busy Pri- 
mate of Saint Andrew’s. Eustace, late the Sub-Prior of 
Kennaquhair, is now its Abbot, and, like a second Pope 
Julius, is levying men and making musters to fight with 
Foster if he comes forward.” 

“ We must prevent that meeting,” said Murray, hasti- 
ly ; “ whichever party wins the day, it were a fatal en- 
counter for us — Who commands the troop of the Abbot 

“ Our faithful old friend, Julian Avenel, nothing less,” 
answered Morton. 

“ Glendinning,” said Murray, “ sound trumpets to 
horse directly, and let all who love us get on horseback 
without delay — Yes, my lord, this were indeed a fatal 


20S 


THE MOXASTERY. 


dilemma. If we take part with our English friends, the 
country will cry shame on us — the very old wives will 
attack us with their rocks and spindles — the very stones 
of the street will rise up against us — we cannot set our 
face to such a deed of infamy. And rny sister, whose 
confidence I already have such difficulty in preserving, 
will altogether withdraw it from me. Then, were we 
to oppose the English Warden, Elizabeth would call it a 
protecting of her enemies and what not, and we should 
lose her.” 

“ The she-dragon,” said Morton, “ is the best card 
in our pack, and yet I would not willingly stand still and 
see English blades carve Scots flesh — What say you to 
loitering by the way, marching fair and easy for fear of 
spoiling our horses f They might then fight dog .fight 
bull, fight Abbot fight archer, and no one could blame 
us for what chanced when we were not present.” 

“ All would blame us, James Douglas,” replied Mur- 
ray ; “ we should lose both sides — we had better advance 
jWith the utmost celerity, and do what we can to keep 
the peace betwixt them. I w'ould the nag that brought 
Piercie Shafton hither had broken his neck over the high- 
est heuch in Northumberland ! — He is a proper cox- 
comb to make all this bustle about, and to occasion 
perhaps a national warl” 

“ Had we known in time,” said Douglas, “ we might 
have had him privily waited upon as he entered the Bor- 
ders ; there are strapping lads enough would Ifave rid 
us of him for the lucre of his spur-whang.^^ But to the 
saddle, James Stuart, since so the phrase goes. I hear 
your trumpets sound to horse and away — we shall soon 
see which nag is best breathed.” 

Followed by a train of about three hundred well 
mounted men-at-arms, these two powerful barons direct- 
ed their course to Dumfries, and from thence eastward 
to Teviotdale, marching at a rate, which, as Morton had 
foretold, soon disabled a good many of their horses, so 
that when they approached the scene of expected action, 
♦here were not above two hundred of their train remain- 


THE MONASTERY. 


209 


mg in a body, and of these most were mounted on steeds 
which had been sorely jaded. 

They had hitherto been amused and agitated by various 
reports concerning the advance of the English soldiers, 
and the degree of resistance which the Abbot was able 
to oppose to them. But when they were six or seven 
miles from Saint Mary’s of Kennaquhair, a gentleman 
of the country, whom Murray had summoned to attend 
him, and on whose intelligence he knew he could rely, 
arrived at the head of two or three servants, “ bloody with 
spurring, fiery red with haste.” According to his report. 
Sir John Foster, after several times announcing, and as 
often delaying, his intended incursion, had at last been 
so stung with the news that Piercie Shafton was openly 
residing within the Halidome, that he determined to ex- 
ecute the commands of his mistress, which directed him, 
at every risk, to make himself master of the Euphuist’s 
person. The Abbot’s unceasing exertions had collected 
a body of men almost equal in number to those of the 
English Warden, but less practised in arms. They were 
united under the command of Julian Avenel, and it was 
apprehended they wmuld join battle upon the banks of a 
small stream which forms the verge of the Halidome. 

“ Who knows the place said Murray. 

‘‘ I do, my lord,” answered Glendinning. 

“ ’Tis well,” said the Earl ; “ take a score of the 
best-mounted horse — make what haste thou canst, and 
announce to them that I am coming up instantly with a 
strong power, and will cut to pieces, without mercy, 
whichever party strikes the first blow. — Davidson,” said 
he to the gentleman who brought the intelligence, “ thou 
shalt be my guide. — Hie thee on, Glendinning — Say to 
Foster, I conjure him, as he respects his Mistress’s ser- 
vice, that he will leave the matter in my hands. Say to 
the Abbot, I will burn the Monastery over his head, if 
he strikes a stroke till I come — Tell the dog, Julian Ave- 
nel, that he hath already one deep score to settle with 
me — I will set his head on the top of the highest pinna- 
18 * VOL. II. 


210 


THE MONASTERY. 


cle of Saint Mary’s, if he presume to open another. 
Make haste, and spare not the spur, for fear of spoiling 
horse-flesh.” 

“Your bidding shall be obeyed, my lord,” said Glen- 
dinning ; and choosing those whose horses were in best 
plight to be his attendants, he went off as fast as the jaded 
state of their cavalry permitted. Hill and hollow van- 
ished from under the feet of the chargers. 

They had not ridden above half the way, when they 
met stragglers coming off from the field, whose appear- 
ance announced that the conflict was begun. Two sup- 
ported in their arms a third, their elder brother, who 
was pierced with an arrow through the body. Halbert, 
who knew them to belong to the Halidome, called them 
by their names, and questioned them of the state of the 
affray ; but just then, in spite of their efforts to retain 
him in the saddle, their brother dropped from the horse, 
and they dismounted in haste to receive his last breath. 
From men thus engaged, no information w'as to be ob- 
tained. Glendinning, therefore, pushed on with his little 
troop, the more anxiously as he perceived other strag- 
glers, bearing Saint Andrew’s cross upon their caps and 
corslets, flying apparently from the field of battle. Most 
of these, when they were aware of a body of horsemen 
approaching on the road, held to the one hand or the 
other, at such a distance as precluded coming to speech 
of them. Others, whose fear was more intense, kept 
the onward road, galloping wildly as fast as their horses 
could carry them, and when questioned, only glared with- 
out reply on those who spoke to them, and rode on with- 
out drawing bridle. Several of these were also known 
to Halbert, who had therefore no doubt, from the cir- 
cumstances in which he met them, that the men of the 
Halidome were defeated. He became now unspeakably 
anxious concerning the fate of his brother, who, he could 
not doubt, must have been engaged in the affray. He 
therefore increased the speed of his horse, so that not 
above five or six of his followers could keep up with him. 
At length he reached a little hill, at the descent of which, 


THE MOJfASTERY. 


211 


surrounded by a semi-circular sweep of a small stream, 
lay the plain which had been the scene of the skirmish. 

It was a melancholy spectacle. War and terror, to 
use the expression of the poet, had rushed on to the field, 
and left only wounds and death behind them. The bat- 
tle had been stoutly contested, as was almost always the 
case with these Border skirmishes, where ancient hatred, 
and mutual injuries, made men stubborn in maintaining the 
cause of their conflict. Towards the middle of the plain, 
there lay the bodies of several men who had fallen in the 
very act of grappling with the enemy ; and there were seen 
countenances which still bore the stern expression of un- 
extinguishable hate and defiance, hands which clasped 
the hilt of the broken falchion, or strove in vain to pluck 
the deadly arrow from the wound. Some were wound- 
ed, and, cowed of the courage they had lately shown, 
were begging aid, and craving water, in a tone of melan- 
choly depression, while others tried to teach the faltering 
tongue to pronounce some half-forgotten prayer, which, 
even when first learned, they had but half- understood. 
Halbert, uncertain what course he was next to pursue, 
rode through the plain to see if, among the dead or wound- 
ed, he could discover any traces of his brother Edward. 
He experienced no interruption from the English. A 
distant cloud of dust announced that they were still pur- 
suing the scattered fugitives, and he guessed, that to ap- 
proach them with his followers, until they were again 
under some command, would be to throw away his own 
life, and that of his men, whom the victors would instantly 
confound with the Scots, against whom they had been 
successful. He resolved, therefore, to pause until Mur- 
ray came up with his forces, to which he was the more 
readily moved, as he heard the trumpets of the English 
Warden sounding the retreat, and recalling from the pur- 
suit. He drew his men together, and made a stand in 
an advantageous spot of ground, which had been occupi- 
ed by the Scots in the beginning of the action, and most 
fiercely disputed while the skirmish lasted. 


212 


THE MONASTERT. 


While he stood here, Halbert’s ear was assailed by the 
feeble moan of a woman, which he had not expected to 
hear amid that scene, until the retreat of the foes had 
permitted the relations of the slain to approach, for the 
purpose of paying them the last duties. He looked with 
anxiety, and at length observed, that by the body of a 
knight in bright armour, whose crest, though soiled and 
broken, still showed the marks of rank and birth, there 
sat a female, wrapt in a horseman’s cloak, and holding 
something pressed against her bosom, which he soon dis- 
covered to be a child. He glanced towards the English. 
They advanced not, and the continued and prolonged 
sound of their trumpets, with the shouts of the leaders, 
announced that their powers would not be instantly re- 
assembled. He had, therefore, a moment to look after 
this unfortunate woman. He gave his horse to a spearman 
as he dismounted, and, approaching the unhappy female, 
asked her in the most soothing tone he could assume, 
whether he could assist her in her distress. The mourner 
made him no direct answer ; but endeavouring, with a 
trembling and unskilful hand, to undo the springs of the 
visor and gorget, said, in a tone of impatient grief, “ O, 
he would recover instantly could I but give him air — 
land and living, life and honour, would 1 give for the 
power of undoing these cruel iron platings that suffo- 
cate him!” He that would sooth sorrow must not argue 
on the vanity of the most deceitful hopes. The body lay 
as that of one whose last draught of vital air had been 
drawn, and who must never more have concern with the 
nether sky. But Halbert Glendinning failed not to raise 
the visor and cast loose the gorget, when, to his great sur- 
prise, he recognized the pale face of Julian Avenel. His 
last fight was over, the fierce and turbid spirit had de- 
parted in the strife in which it had so long delighted. 

“ Alas I he is gone,” said Halbert, speaking to the 
young woman, in whom he had now no difficulty of 
knowing the unhappy Catherine. 

“ O, no, no, no !” she reiterated, “ do not say so — he 
is not dead — he is but in a swoon. 1 have lain as Ions 


THE MONASTERY. 


213 


in one myself — and then his voice would rouse me, when 
he spoke kindly, and said, Catherine, look up for my 
sake — And look up, Julian, for mine!” she said, addres- 
sing the senseless corpse ; “ I know you do but coun- 
terfeit to frighten me, but I am not frightened,” she ad- 
ded, with anhysterical attempt to laugh ; and then instant- 
ly changing her tone, entreated him to “ speak, were it 
but to curse my folly. O. the rudest word you ever said 
to me would now sound like the dearest you wasted on 
me before I gave you all. Lift him up,” she said, “ lift 
him up for God’s sake ! — have you no compassion ? 
He promised to wed me if I bore him a boy, and this 
child is so like to its father ! — How shall he keep his 
word, if you do not help me to awaken him ? — Christie 
of the Clint-hill, Rowley, Hutcheon ! ye were constant 
at his feast, but ye fled from him at the fray, false villains 
as ye are !” 

“ Not I, by Heaven !” said a dying man, who made 
some shift to raise himself on his elbow, and discovered 
to Halbert the well-known features of Christie ; “ I fled 
not a foot, and a man can but fight while his breath 
lasts — mine is going fast. — So, youngster,” said he, look- 
ing at Glendinning, and seeing his military dress, “ thou 
hast ta’en the basnet at last f it is a better cap to live in 
than die in. I would chance had sent thy brother here 
instead — there was good in him — but thou art as wild, 
and wilt soon be as wicked as myself.” 

‘‘ God forbid I” said Halbert, hastily. 

‘‘ Marry, and amen, with all my heart,” said the 
wounded man, “ there will be company enow without 
thee where I am going. But God be praised I had no 
hand in that wickedness,” said he, looking to poor Cath- 
erine ; and with some exclamation in his mouth that 
sounded betwixt a prayer and a curse, the soul of Christie 
of the Clint-hill took wing to the last account. 

Deeply wrapt in the painful interest which these shock- 
ing events had excited, Glendinning forgot for a moment 
his own situation and duties, and was first recalled to 
them by a trampling of horse, and the cry of Saint 


214 


THE MONASTERY. 


George for England, which the English soldiers still con- 
tinued to use. His handful of men, for most of the strag- 
glers had waited for Murray’s coming up, remained on 
horse-back, holding their lances upright, having no com- 
mand either to submit or resist 

“ There stands our Captain,” said one of them, as a 
strong party of English came up, the vanguard of Foster’s 
troop. 

“ Your Captain! with his sword sheathed, and on foot 
in the presence of his enemy ^ a raw soldier,! warrant 
him,” said the English leader. “ So ! ho ! young man, 
is your dream out, and will you now answer me if you 
will fight or fly 

“ Neither,” answered Halbert Glendinning, with great 
tranquillity. 

“ Then throw down thy sword and yield thee,” an- 
swered the Englishman. 

“ Not till I can help myself no other wise,” said Hal- 
bert, with the same moderation of tone and manner. 

“ Art thou for thine own hand, friend, or to* whom 
dost thou owe service ?” demanded the English Captain. 

“ To the noble Earl of Murray.” 

“ Then thou servest,” said the Southron, “ the most 
disloyal nobleman who breathes — false both to England 
and Scotland.” 

“ Thou liest !” said Glendinning, regardless of all 
consequences. 

“ Ha ! art thou so hot now, and wert so cold but a 
minute since? I lie, do I? Wilt thou do battle with me on 
that quarrel ?” 

“ With one to one — one to two — or two to five, as 
you list,” said Halbert Glendinning ; “ grant me but a 
fair field.” 

“That thou shalt have. — Stand back, my mates,” 
said the brave Englishman. “ If I fall, give him fair 
play, and let him go off free with his people.” 

“Long life to the noble Captain!” cried the soldiers, 
as impatient to see the duel as if it had been a bull- 
baiting. 


THE MOJfASTERY. 


215 


“He will have a short life of it, though,” said the 
Sergeant, “ if he, an old man of sixty, is to fight for any 
reason, or for no reason, with every man he meets, and 
especially the young fellows he might be father to. — And 
here comes the Warden besides, to see the sword-play.” 

In fact. Sir John Foster came up with a considerable 
body of his horsemen, just as his Captain, whose age 
rendered him unequal to the combat with so strong and 
active a youth as Glendinning, was deprived of his sword. 

“ Take it up for shame, old Stawarth Bolton,” said 
the Engish Warden ; and thou, young man, tell me 
who and what thou art .^” 

“ A follower of the Earl of Murray, who bore his will 
to your honour,” answered Glendinning,--“ but here he 
comes to say it himself, 1 see the van of his horsemen 
come over the hills.” 

“ Get into order, my masters,” said Sir John Foster 
to his followers ; “ you that have broken your spears, 
draw your swords. We are something unprovided for 
a second field, but if yonder dark cloud on the hill-edge 
bring us foul weather, we must bear as bravely as our 
broken cloaks will bide it. Meanwhile, Stawarth, we 
have got the deer we have hunted for — here is Piercie 
Shafton bard and fast betwixt two troopers.” 

“ Who, that lad .^” said Bolton ; “ he is no more 
Piercie Shafton than I am. He hath his gay cloak 
indeed — but Piercie Shafton is a round dozen of years 
older than that slip of roguery. I have known him since 
he was thus high. Did you never see him in the tilt-yard 
or in the presence 

“ To the devil with such vanities !” said Sir John 
Foster ; “ when had 1 leisure for them or any thing else 
During my whole life has she kept me to this hangman’s 
office, chasing thieves one day and traitors another, in 
daily fear of my life ; the lance never hung up in the hall, 
the foot never out of the stirrup, the saddles never off 
my nags’ backs ; and now, because I have been mistaken 
in the person of a man I never saw, I warrant me, the next 
letters from the Privy Council will rate me as I were a 


THE MONASTERY. 


216 


dog — a man were better dead than thus slaved and ha- 
rassed.’’ 

A trumpet interrupted Foster’s complaints, and a Scot- 
tish pursuivant who attended, declared “ that the noble 
Earl of Murray desired, in all honour and safety, a per- 
sonal conference with Sir John Foster, midway between 
their parties, with six of company in each, and ten free 
minutes to come and go.” 

“ And now,” said the Englishman, “ comes another 
plague. I must go speak with yonder false Scot, and he 
knows how to frame his devices,* to cast dust in the eyes 
of a plain man, as well as ever a knave in the north. I 
am no match for him in words, and for hard blows we 
are but too ill provided. — Pursuivant, we grant the con- 
ference— and you. Sir Swordsman, (speaking to young 
Glendinning,) draw oft' with your troopers to your own 
party — march — attend your Earl’s trumpet — Stawarth 
Bolton, put our troop in order, and be ready to move 
forward at the wagging of a finger. — Get you gone to 
your own friends, I tell you. Sir Squire, and loiter not 
here.” 

Notwithstanding this peremptory order. Halbert Glen- 
dinning could not help stopping to cast a look upon the 
unfortunate Catherine, who lay insensible of the danger 
and of the trampling of so many horses around her, in- 
sensible as the second glance assured him, of all and for 
ever. Glendinning almost rejoiced when he saw that 
the last misery of life was over, and that the hoofs of the 
war-horses, amongst which he was compelled to leave her, 
could only injure and deface a senseless corpse. He 
caught the infant from her arms, half ashamed of the 
shout of laughter which rose on all sides, at seeing an 
armed man in such a situation assume such an unwonted 
and inconvenient burden. 

“ Shoulder your infant !” cried a harquebusier. 

“ Port your infant !” said a pikeman. 

“ Peace, ye brutes,” said Stawarth Bolton, “ and re- 
spect humanity in others, if you have none yourselves. 
1 pardon the lad having done some discredit to my gray 


THE MONASTEllY. 


217 


hairs, when I see him take care of that helpless creature, 
which ye would have trampled upon as if he had been 
littered of bitch wolves, not born of women.” 

While this passed, the leaders on either side met in the 
neutral space betwixt the forces of either, and the Earl 
accosted the English Warden : “ Is this fair or honest 
usage, Sir John, or for whom do you hold the Earl of 
Morton and myself, that you ride in Scotland with array- 
ed banner, fight, slay, and make prisoners at your own 
pleasure ^ Is it well done, think you, to spoil our land 
and shed our blood, after the many proofs we have 
given to your mistress of our devotion due to her will, 
saving always the allegiance due to our own sovereign?” 

“My lord of Murray,” answered Foster, “all the world 
knows you to be a man of quick ingine and deep wis- 
dom, and these several weeks have you held me in hand 
with promising to arrest my sovereign mistress’s rebel, 
this Piercie Shafton of Wilverton, and you have never 
kept your word, alleging turmoils in the west, and I wot 
not what other causes of hinderance. Now, since he has 
had the insolence to return hither, and live openly within 
ten miles of England, I could no longer in plain duty to 
my mistress and queen, tarry upon your successive de- 
lays, and therefore I have used her force to take her 
rebel, by the strong hand, wherever I can find him.” 

“ And is Piercie Shafton in your hands then said 
ihe Earl of Murray. “ Be aware that I may not, without 
my own great shame, suffer you to remove him hence 
without doing battle.” 

“ Will you. Lord Earl, after all the advantages you 
have received at the hands of the Queen of England, 
do battle in the cause of her rebel said Sir John Foster. 

“ Not so. Sir John,” answered the Earl, “ but I will 
fight to the death in defence of the liberties of our free 
kingdom of Scotland.” 

“ By my faith,” said Sir John Foster, “ I am well 
content — my sword is not blunted with all it has done yet 
this day.” 

19 VOL. II. 


218 


THE MOJTASTERY. 


“ By my honour, Sir John,” said Sir George Heron 
of Chip-chase, “ there is but little reason we should fight 
these Scottish Lords e’en now, for I hold opinion with 
old Staw'arth Bolton, and believe yonder prisoner to he 
no more Piercie Shafton than he is the Earl of Northum- 
berland ; and you were but ill advised to break th*e peace 
betwixt the countries for a prisoner of less consequence 
than that gay mischief-maker.” 

“ Sir George,” replied Foster, “ I have often heard 
you herons are afraid of hawks — nay, lay not hand on 
sword, man, 1 did but jest ; and for this prisoner, let him 
be brought up hither, that w'e may see who or what he is 
— always under assurance, my Lords,” he continued, 
addressing the Scots. 

“ Upon our word and honour,” said Morton, “ we 
will offer no violence.” 

The laugh turned against Sir John Foster considerably, 
when the prisoner, being brought up, proved not only a 
different person from Sir Piercie Shafton, hut a female 
in man’s attire. 

“ Pluck the mantle from the quean’s face and cast her 
to the horse-boys,” said Foster ; “ she has kept such 
company ere now, I warrant.” 

Even Murray was moved to laughter, no common thing 
with him, at the disappointment oi’ the English Warden ; 
but he would not permit any violence to be offered to 
the fair Molinara, who had thus a second time, rescued 
Sir Piercie Shafton, at her own personal risk. 

“ You have already done more mischief than you can 
well answer,” said the Earl to the English Warden, “ and 
it were dishonour to me should 1 permit you to harm a 
hair of this young woman’s head.” 

“ My lord,” said Morton, “if Sir John will ride apart 
with me but for one moment, I will show him such rea- 
sons as shall make him content to depart, and to refer 
this unhappy day’s W'ork to the judgment of the Com- 
missioners nominated to try offences on the Border.” 

He then led Sir John Foster aside, and spoke to him 
jn this manner : — “ Sir John Foster, I much marvel that 


THE MONASTERY. 


219 


a man who knows your Queen Elizabeth as you do, should 
not know that, if you hope any thing from her, it must 
be for doing her useful service, not for involving her in 
quarrels with her neighbours without any advantage Sir 
Knight, I will speak frankly what I know to be true. Had 
you seized the true Piercie Shafton by this ill-advised 
inroad ; and had your deed threatened, as most likely it 
might, a breach betwixt the countries, your politic Prin- 
cess and her politic council would rather have disgraced 
Sir John Foster than entered into war in his behalf. But 
now that you have stricken short of your aim, you may 
rely on it you will have little thanks for carrying the mat- 
ter farther. I will work thus far on the Earl of Murray, 
that he will undertake to dismiss Sir Piercie Shafton 
from the realm of Scotland. Be well advised, and let 
the matter now pas‘: otf — you will gain nothing by farther 
violence, for if we fight, you, as the fewer and the weak- 
er through your former action, will needs have the worse.” 

Sir John Foster listened with his head declining on his 
breastplate. 

“ It is a cursed chance,” he said, “ and I shall have 
little thanks for my day’s work.” 

He then rode up to Murray, and said, that in deference 
to his Lordship’s presence and that of my Lord of Mor- 
ton, he had come to the resolution of withdrawing him- 
self, with his power, without farther proceedings. 

“Stop there. Sir John Foster,” said Murray, “ I can- 
not permit you to retire in safety, unless you leave some 
one who may be surety to Scotland, that the injuries you 
have at present done us may be fully accounted for — you 
will reflect, that by permitting your retreat, I become 
accountable to my Sovereign, who will demand a reck- 
oning of me for the blood of her subjects, if I suffer 
those who shed it to depart so easily.” 

“ It shall never be told in England,” said the Warden, 
“ that John Foster gave pledges like a subdued man, 
and that on the very field on which he stands victorious. 
But,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “ if Stawarth 
Bolton wills to abide with you on his own free choice, I 


220 


THE MONASTERY. 


will say nothing against it ; and, as I bethink me, it were 
better he should stay to see the dismissal of this same 
Piercie Shafton.” 

“ I receive him as your hostage, nevertheless, and shall 
treat him as such,” said the Earl of Murray. But Fos- 
ter, turning away as if to give directions to Bolton and 
his men, affected not to hear this observation. 

“ There rides a faithful servant of his most beautiful 
and Sovereign Lady,” said Murray aside to Morton. 
“ Happy man ! he knows not whether the execution of 
her commands may not cost him his head ; and yet he is 
most certain that to leave them unexecuted will bring 
disgrace and death without reprieve. Happy are they 
who are not only subjected to the caprices of Dame For- 
tune, but held bound to account and be responsible for 
them, and that to a Sovereign as moody and fickle as 
her humorous ladyship herself !” 

“ We also have a female Sovereign, my lord,” said 
Morton. 

“ We have so, Douglas,” said the Earl, with a sup- 
pressed sigh ; ‘‘ but it remains to be seen how long a 
female hand can hold the reins of power in a realm so 
wild as ours. We will now go on to St. Mary’s, and 
see ourselves after the state of that House. — Glendin- 
ning, look to that woman and protect her. — ^What the 
fiend, man, hast thou got in thine arms ? — an infant, as 
I live!— where couldst thou find such a charge, at such a 
place and moment 

Halbert Glendinning briefly told the story. The Earl 
rode forward to the place where the body of Julian Ave- 
nel lay, with his unhappy companion’s arms wrapt around 
him, like the trunk of an uprooted oak borne down by 
the tempest with all its ivy garlands. Both were cold- 
dead. Murray was touched in an unwonted degree, re- 
membering, perhaps, his own birth. “ What have they 
to answer for, Douglas,” he said, “ who thus abuse the 
sweetest gifts of affection ?” 

The Earl of Morton, unhappy in his marriage was a 
libertine in his amours, 


THE MONASTERY. 


221 


“ You must ask that question of Henry Warden, my 
lord, or of John Knox — I am but a wild counsellor in 
women’s matters.” 

“ Forward to St. Mary’s,” said the Earl ; “ pass the 
word on — Glendinning, give the infant to this same fe- 
male cavalier, and let it be taken charge of. Let no 
dishonour be done to the dead bodies, and call on the 
country to bury or remove them. — Forward, I say, my 
masters!” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Gone to be married 1 — Gone to swear a peace ! 

King John. 

The news of the lost battle, so quickly carried by the 
fugitives to the village and convent, had spread the great- 
est alarm among the inhabitants. The Sacristan and 
other monks counselled flight ; the Treasurer recom- 
mended that the church-plate should be offered as a trib- 
ute to bribe the English officer ; the Abbot alone was 
unmoved and undaunted. 

“ My brethren,” he said, “ since God has not given 
our people victory in the combat, it must be because he 
requires of us, his spiritual soldiers, to fight the good 
fight of martyrdom, a conflict in which nothing but our 
own faint-hearted cowardice can make us fail of victory. 
Let us assume, then, the armour of faith, and prepare, 
if it be necessary, to die under the ruin of these shrines, 
to the service of which we have devoted ourselves. 
Highly honoured are we all in this distinguished sum- 
mons, from our dear brother Nicholas, whose grey hairs 
have been preserved until they should be surrounded by 
the crown of martyrdom, down to my beloved son Ed- 
ward, who, arriving at the vineyard at the latest hour of 
19 * VOL,. II. 


222 


THE MONASTERY. 


the day, is yet permitted to share its toils with those who 
have laboured from the morning. Be of good courage, 
my children. I dare not, like my sainted predecessors, 
promise to you that you shall be preserved by miracle — 
I and you are alike unworthy of that especial interpo- 
sition, which, in earlier times, turned the sword of sacri- 
lege against the bosom of tyrants by whom it was wielded, 
daunted the hardened hearts of heretics with prodigies, 
and called down hosts of angels to defend the shrine of 
God and of the Virgin. Yet, by Heavenly aid, you shall 
this day see that your Father and Abbot will not disgrace 
the mitre which sits upon his brow. Go to your cells, 
my children, and exercise your private devotions. Array 
yourselves also in alb and cope, as for our most solemn 
festivals, and be ready, when the tolling ofthe largest bell 
announces the approach of the enemy, to march forth to 
meet them in solemn procession. Let the church be 
opened to afford such refuge as may be to those of our 
vassals, who, from their exertion in this day’s unhappy 
battle, or other cause, are particularly apprehensive of 
the rage of the enemy. Tell Sir Piercie Shafton, if he 
has escaped the fight” 

“ I am here, most venerable Abbot,” replied Sir 
Piercie ; ‘‘ and if it so seemeth meet to you, I will 
presently assemble such of the men as have escaped this 
escaramouche, and will renew the resistance, even unto 
the death. Certes, you will learn from all, that I did my 
part in this unhappy matter. Had it pleased Julian Av- 
enel to have attended to my counsel, specially in some- 
W'hat withdrawing of his main battle, even as you may 
have marked the heron eschew the stoop of the falcon, 
receiving him rather upon his beak than upon his wing, 
affairs, as I do conceive, might have had a different face, 
and we might then, in a more bellicose manner, have 
maintained that affray. Nevertheless, I would not be 
understood to speak any thing in disregard of Julian 
Avenel, whom I saw fall fighting manfully with his face 
to his enemy, which hath banished from my memory the 
unseemly term of “ meddling coxcomb,” with which it 


THE MONASTERY. 


223 


pleased him something rashly to qualify my advice, and for 
which, had it pleased Heaven and the saints to have pro- 
longed the life of that excellent person, 1 had it bound 
upon my soul to have put him to death with my own 
hand.” 

“ Sir Piercie,” said the Abbot, at length interrupting 
him, “ our time allows brief leisure to speak what might 
have been.” 

“ You are right, most venerable Lord and Father,” 
replied the incorrigible Euphuist ; “ the praeterite, as 
grammarians have it, concerns frail mortality less than the 
future mood, and indeed our cogitations respect; chiefly 
the present. In a word, I am willing to head all who 
will follow me, and offer such opposition as manhood and 
mortality may permit, to the advance of the English, 
though they be my own countrymen ; and be assured, 
Piercie Shafton will measure his length, being five feet ten 
inches, on the ground as he stands, rather than give two 
yards in retreat, according to the usual motion in which 
we retrogade.” 

“ 1 thank you, Sir Knight,” said the Abbot, “ and 1 
doubt not that you w^ould make your words good ; but it is 
not the will of Heaven that carnal weapons should rescue 
us. We are called to endure, not to resist, and may not 
waste the blood of our innocent commons in vain — Fruit- 
less opposition becomes not men of our profession ; they 
have my commands to resign the sword and the spear, 
— God and our Lady have not blessed our banner.” 

“ Bethink you, reverend lord,” said Piercie Shafton, 
very eagerly, “ ere you resign the defence that is in 
your power — there are many posts near the entry of this 
village, where brave men might live or die to the advan- 
tage ; and I have this additional motive to make defence ; 
the safety, namely, of a fair friend, who, I hope, hath 
escaped the hands of the heretics.” 

“ I understand you. Sir Piercie,” said the Abbot — 
you mean the daughter of our Convent’s miller ?” 

“ Reverend my lord,” said Sir Piercie, not without 
hesitation, “ the fair Mysinda is, as may be in some sort 


224 


THE MONASTERY. 


alleged, the daughter of one who mechanically prepareth 
corn to be manipulated into bread, without which we 
could not exist, and which is therefore an employment 
in itself honourable, nay, nece'Ssary. Nevertheless, if 
the purest sentiments of a generous mind, streaming forth 
like the rays of the sun reflected by a diamond, may 
ennoble one who is in some sort the daughter of a mo- 
lendinary mechanic” 

“ I have no time for all this. Sir Knight,” said the 
Abbot ; “ be it enough to answer, that with our will we 
war no longer with carnal weapons. We of the spirit- 
uality will teach you of the temporality how to die in cold 
blood, our hands not clenched for resistance, but folded 
for prayer — our minds not filled with jealous hatred, 
but with Christian meekness and forgiveness — our ears 
not deafened nor our senses confused by the sound of 
clamorous instruments of war ; but, on the contrary, 
our voices composed to Halleluiah, Kyrie-Eleison, and 
Salve Regina, and our blood temperate and cold, as those 
who think upon reconciling themselves wdth God, not of 
avenging themselves of their fellow-mortals.” 

“ Lord Abbot,” said Sir Piercie, “ this is nothing to 
the fate of my Molinara, whom, 1 beseech you to ob- 
serve, I will not abandon, while golden hilt and steel blade 
bide together on my falchion. I commanded her not to 
follow us to the field, and yet methought I saw her in her 
page’s attire amongst the rear of the combatants.” 

“ You must seek elsewhere for the person in whose 
fate you are so deeply interested,” said the Abbot ; 
“ and at present I will pray of your knighthood to in- 
quire concerning her at the church, in which all our more 
defenceless vassals have taken refuge. It is my advice 
to you, that you also abide by the horns of the altar ; and 
Sir Piercie Shafton,” he added, “ be of one thing se- 
cure, that if you come to harm, it will involve the whole 
of this brotherhood ; for never, I trust, wnll the meanest 
of us buy safety at the expense of surrendering a friend 
or a guest. Leave us, my son, and may God be your 
aid!” 


THE MONASTERY* 


225 


When Sir Piercie Shafton had departed, and the Ab- 
bot was about to betake himself to his own cell, he was 
surprised by an unknown person anxiously requiring a 
conference, who, being admitted, proved to be no other 
than Henry Warden. The Abbot started as he entered, 
and exclaimed, angrily, — “ Ha ! are the few hours that 
fate allows him who may last wear the mitre of this house, 
not to be excused from the intrusion of heresy Dost 
thou come,” he said, “ to enjoy the hopes which fate 
holds out to thy demented and accursed sect, to see the 
besom of destruction sweep away the pride of old relig- 
ion — to deface our shrines — to mutilate and lay waste 
the bodies of our benefactors, as well as their sepulchres 
— to destroy the pinnacles and carved work of God’s 
house and Our Lady’s 

“ Peace, William Allan !” said the Protestant preach- 
er, with dignified composure ; “ for none of these pur- 
poses do I come. I would have these stately shrines 
deprived of the idols which, no longer simply regarded 
as the effigies of the good and the wise, have become 
the objects of foul idolatry. I would otherwise have its 
ornaments subsist, unless as they are, or may be, a snare 
to the souls of men ; and especially do I condemn those 
ravages which have been made by the heady fury of the 
people stung into zeal against will-worship by bloody per- 
secution. Against such wanton devastations I lift my 
testimony.” 

“ Idle distinguisher that thou art !” said the Abbot Eus- 
tace, interrupting him ; “ what signifies the pretext under 
which thou dost despoil the house of God ? and why at 
this present emergence wilt thou insult the master of it 
by thy ill-omened presence ?” 

“ Thou art unjust, William Allan,” said Warden ; 

but I am not the less settled in my resolution. Thou 
hast protected me sometime since at the hazard of thy 
rank, and what I know thou boldest still dearer, at the 
risk of thy reputation with thine own sect. Our party is 
now uppermost, and, believe me, I have come down the 
valley, in which thou didst quarter me for sequestration’s 


226 


THE MONASTERY. 


sake, simply with the wish to keep my engagements to 
thee.” 

“ Ay,” answered the Abbot, “ and it may be, that 
my listening to that worldly and infirm compassion which 
pleaded with me for thy life, is now avenged by this im- 
pending judgment. Heaven hath smitten, it may be, the 
erring shepherd, and scattered the flock.” 

“ Think better of the Divine judgments,” said War- 
den. “ Not for thy sins, which are those of thy blinded 
education and circumstances ; not for thine own sins, 
William Allan, art thou stricken, but for the accumulated 
guilt which thy mis-named church hath accumulated on 
her head, and those of her votaries, by the errors and 
corruptions of ages.” 

“ Now, by my sure belief in the Rock of Peter,” 
said the Abbot, “ thou dost rekindle the last spark of 
human indignation for which my bosom has fuel — I 
thought I might not again have felt the impulse of earthly 
passion, and it is thy voice which once more calls me to 
the expression of human anger ! yes, it is thy voice that 
comest to insult me in my hour of sorrow, with these 
blasphemous accusations of that church which hath kept 
the light of Christianity alive from the times of the 
Apostles till now.” 

“ From the times of the Apostles ?” said the preacher 
eagerly. “ JVegatur, GuUelme Allan — the primitive 
church differed as much from that of Rome, as did light 
from darkness, which, did time permit, I should speedily 
prove. And worse dost thou judge, in saying I come to 
insult thee in thy hour of affliction, being here, God wot, 
with the Christian wish of fulfilling an engagement I had 
made to my host, and of rendering myself to thy w’ill 
while it had yet power to exercise aught upon me, and 
if it might so be, to mitigate in thy behalf the rage of 
the victors whom God hath sent as a scourge to thy ob- 
stinacy.” 

“ I will none of thy intercession,” said the Abbot, 
sternly ; “ the dignity to which the church has exalted 

me, never should have swelled my bosom more proudly 


THE MONASTERY. 


227 


in the time of the highest prosperity, than it doth at this 
crisis — I ask nothing of thee, but the assurance that my 
lenity to thee hath been the means of perverting no soul 
to Satan, that I have not given to the wolf any of the 
stray lambs whom the Great Shepherd of souls had in- 
trusted to my charge.” 

“ William Allan,” answered the Protestant, “ I will 
be sincere with thee. What 1 promised I have kept — I 
have withheld my voice from speaking even good things. 
But it has pleased Heaven to call the maiden Mary Ave- 
nel to a better sense of faith than thou and all the disci- 
ples of Rome can teach. Her I have aided with my 
humble power — 1 have extricated her from the machina- 
tions of evil spirits, to which she and her house were ex- 
posed during the blindness of their Romish superstition, 
and, praise be to my Master, I have not reason to fear 
she will again be caught in thy snares.” 

“ Wretched man !” said the Abbot, unable to sup- 
press his rising indignation, “ is it to the Abbot of Saint 
Mary’s that you boast having misled the soul of a dweller 
in Our Lady’s Halidorne into the paths of foul error and 
damning heresy.^ — Thou dost urge me, Wellwood, be- 
yond what it becomes me to bear, and movest me to em- 
ploy the few moments of power I may yet possess, in 
removing from the face of the earth one, whose qualities, 
given by God, have been so utterly perverted as thine to 
the service of Satan.” 

“ Do thy pleasure,” said the preacher ; “ thy vain 
wrath shall not prevent my doing my duty to advantage 
thee, where it may be done without neglecting my higher 
call. I go to the Earl of Murray.” 

Their conference, which was advancing fast into bitter 
disputation, was here interrupted by the deep and sullen 
toll of the largest and heaviest bell of the Convent, a 
sound famous in the chronicles of the Community, for 
dispelling of tempests, and putting to flight demons, but 
which now only announced danger, without affording any 
means of warding against it. Hastily repeating his or- 
ders, that all the brethren should attend in the choir, 


22S 


THE MONASTERY. 


arrayed for solemn procession, the Abbot ascended to the 
battlements of the lofty Monastery, by his own private 
staircase, and there met the Sacristan, who had been in 
the act of directing the tolling of the huge bell, which 
fell under his duty. 

“ It is the last time I shall discharge mine office, most 
venerable Father and Lord,” said he to the Abbot, “ for 
yonder come the Philistines ; but I would not that the 
large bell of Saint Mary’s should sound for the last time, 
otherwise than in true and full tone — I have been a sinful 
man for one of our holy profession,” added he, looking 
upward, “ yet may 1 presume to say, not a bell hath 
sounded out of tune from the tower of the house while 
Father Philip had the superintendence of the chime and 
the belfry.” 

The Abbot, without reply, cast his eyes towards 
the path, which winding around the mountain, descends 
upon Kennaquhair from the south-east. He beheld 
at a distance a cloud of dust, and heard the neighing 
of many horses, while the occasional sparkle of the long 
line of spears, as they came downwards into the valley, 
announced that the band came thither in arms. 

“ Shame on my weakness !” said Abbot Eustace, dash- 
ing the tears from his eyes ; “ my sight is too much 
dimmed to observe their motions — look, my son Ed- 
ward,” for his favourite novice had again joined him, 
“ and tell me wdiat ensigns they bear.” 

“ They are Scottish men, when all is done,” exclaim- 
ed Edward — “ I see the white crosses — it may be the 
Western Borderers, or Fernieherst and his clan.” 

“ Look at the banner,” said the Abbot; “ tell me wha 
are the blazonries 

“ The arms of Scotland,” said Edward, “ the lion 
and its treasure, quartered, as I think, with three cush- 
ions — Can it be the royal standard ?” 

“ Alas ! no,” said the Abbot, “ it is that of the Earl 
of INIurray. He hath assumed with his new conquest the 
badge of the valiant Randolph, and hath dropped from 
his hereditary coat the bend which indicates his owm base 


the monastery. 


229 


birth would to God he may not have blotted it also from 
ms memory, and aim as well at possessing the name, as 
the power, of a king !” 

“ At least, my father,” said Edward, “he will secure 
us from the violence of the Southron.” 

Ay, my son, as the shepherd secures a silly lamb 
from the wolf, which he destines in due time to his own 
banquet. Oh, my son, evil days are on us ! A breach 
has been made in the walls of our sanctuary — thy broth- 
er hath fallen from the faith. Such news brought my 
last secret intelligence — Murray has already spoken of 
rewarding his services with the hand of Mary Avene). ” 

“ Of Mary Avenel !” said the novice, tottering to- 
wards and grasping hold of one of the carved pinnacles 
which adorned the proud battlement. 

“ Ay, of Mary Avenel, my son, who has also abjured 
the faith of her fathers. Weep not, my Edward, weep 
not, my beloved son ! or weep for their apostasy, and 
not for their union — Bless God, who hath called thee to 
himself, out of the tents of wickedness ; but for the grace 
of Our Lady and Saint Benedict, thou also hadst been a 
castaway.” 

“ I endeavour, my father,” said Edward, “ I endeavour 
to forget ; but what I would now blot from my memory 
has been the thought of all my former life — Murray dare 
not forward a match so unequal in birth.” 

“ He dares do what suits his purpose — The Castle of 
Avenel is strong, and needs a good castellan, devoted 
to his service; as for the difference of their birth, he will 
mind it no more than he would mind defacing the natural 
regularity of the ground, were it necessary he should 
erect upon it military lines and entrenchments. But do 
not droop for that — awaken thy soul within thee, rny 
son. Think you part wdth a vain vision, an idle dream, 
nursed in solitude and in inaction. — I weep not, yet what 
ami now like to lose .^-Look at these towers, where saints 
dwelt, and where heroes have been buried — Think that 
I, so briefly called to preside over the pious flock, which 
has dwelt here since the first light of Christianity, may 
20 \0L. ir. 


230 


the monastery. 


be this -day written down the last father of this holy com- 
munity — Come, let us descend, and meet our fate. I see 
them approach near to the village.” 

The Abbot descended, the novice cast a glance around 
him ; yet the sense of the danger impending over the 
stately structure, with which he was now united, was un- 
able to banish the recollection of Mary Avenel. — “ His 
brother’s bride !” he pulled the cowl over his face, and 
followed his Superior. 

The whole bells of the Abbey now added their peal 
to the death-toll of the largest which had so long sound- 
ed. The Monks wept and prayed as they got themselves 
into the order of their procession for the last time, as 
seemed but too probable. 

“ It is well our Father Boniface hath retired to the 
inland,” said Father Philip; “ he could never have put 
over this day, it would have broken his heart!” 

“ God be with the soul of Abbot Ingilram !” said old 
Father Nicholas, “ there were no such doings in his 
days. — They say we are to be put forth of the cloisters ; 
and how 1 am to live any where else than where 1 have 
lived for these seventy years, I wot not — the best is, that 
I have not long to live any where.” 

A few moments after this the great gate of the Abbey 
was flung open, and the procession moved slowly forward 
from beneath its huge and richly adorned gate-way. 
Cross and banner, pix and chalice, shrines containing 
relics, and censers steaming with incense, preceded and 
were intermingled with the long and solemn array of the 
brotherhood, in their long black gowns and cowls, with 
their white, scapularies hanging over them, the various 
officers of the convent each displaying his proper badge 
of office. In the centre of the procession came the Ab- 
bot, surrounded and supported by his chief assistants. 
He was dressed in his habit of high solemnity, and ap- 
peared as much unconcerned as if he had been taking 
his usual part in some ordinary ceremony. After him 
came the inferior persons of the convent ; the novices in 
their albs or white dresses, and the lay brethren distin- 


THE MONASTERY. 


231 


guished by their beards, which were seldom worn by the 
Fathers. Women and children, mixed with a few men, 
came in the rear, bewailing the apprehended desolation 
of their ancient sanctuary. They moved, liowever, in 
order, and restrained the marks of their sorrow to a low 
wailing sound, which rather mingled with than interrupt- 
ed the measured chant of the Monks. 

In this order the procession entered the market-place 
of the village of Kennaquhair, which was then, as now, 
distinguished by an acient cross of curious workmanship, 
the gift of some former monarch of Scotland. Close by 
the cross, of much greater antiquity, and scarcely less 
honoured, was an immensely large oak-tree, which per- 
haps had witnessed the worship of the Druids, ere the 
stately Monastery to which it adjoined, had raised its 
spires in honour of the Christian faith. Like the Ben- 
tang-tree of the African villages, or the Plaistow-oak 
mentioned in White’s Natural History of Selbourne, this 
tree was the rendezvous of the villagers, and regarded 
with peculiar veneration ; a feeling common to most na- 
tions, and which perhaps may be traced up to the remote 
period when the patriarch feasted the angels under the 
oak at Mamre.12 

The monks formed themselves each in their due place 
around the cross, while under the ruins of the aged tree 
crowded the old and the feeble, with others who felt the 
common alarm. When they had thus arranged them- 
selves, there was a deep and solemn pause. The monks 
stilled their chant, the lay populace hushed their lamen- 
tations, and all awaited in terror and silence the arrival 
of those heretical forces whom they had been so long 
taught to regard with fear and trembling. 

A distant trampling was at length heard, and the glance 
of spears was seen to shine through the trees above the 
village. The sounds increased, and became more thick, 
one close continuous rushing sound, in which the tread 
of hoofs was mingled with the ringing of armour. The 
horsemen soon appeared at the principal entrance which 
leads into the irregular square or market-place which 


232 


THE MONASTERY. 


forms the centre of the village. They entered two by 
two, slowly and in the greatest order. The van contin- 
ued to move on, riding round the open space, until they 
had attained the utmost point, and then turning their 
horses’ heads to the street, stood fast ; their companions 
followed in the same order, until the whole market-place 
was closely surrounded with soldiers, and the files who 
followed, making the same manoeuvre, formed an inner 
line within those who had first arrived, until the place 
was begirt with a quadruple file of horsemen closely 
drawn up. There was now a pause, of which the Abbot 
availed himself, by commanding the brotherhood to raise 
the solemn chant De profundis clamavi. He looked 
around the armed ranks, to see what impression the sol- 
emn sounds made on them. All were silent, but the 
brows of some had an expression of contempt, and almost 
all the rest bore a look of indifference ; their course had 
been too long decidedto permit past feelings of enthusiasm 
to be anew awakened by a procession or by a hymn. 

“ Their hearts are hardened,” said the Abbot to him- 
self in dejection, but not in despair ; “ it remains to see 
whether those of their leaders are equally obdurate.” 

The leaders, in the meanwhile, were advancing slow- 
ly ; and Murray, with Morton, rode in deep conversation 
before a chosen band of their most distinguished follow- 
ers, amongst whom came Halbert Glendinning. But the 
preacher Henry Warden, who, upon leaving the Monas- 
tery, had instantly joined them, was the only person ad- 
mitted to their conference. 

“ You are determined then,” said Morton to Murray, 

to give the heiress of Avenel, with all her pretensions 
to this nameless and obscure young man?” 

“ Hath not Warden told you,” said Murray, “ that 
they have been bred together, and are lovers from their 
youth upward .?” 

“ And that they are both,” said Warden, “by means 
which may be almost termed miraculous, rescued from 
the delusions of Rome, and brought within the pale of 
the true church. My residence at Glendearg hath made 


THE MONASTERY. 


233 


me well acquainted with these things. Ill would it be- 
seem my habit and my calling, to thrust myself into 
match-matching and giving in marriage ; but worse were 
it in me to see your Lordships do needless wrong to the 
feelings which are proper to our nature, and which, being 
indulged honestly and under the restraints of religion 
become a pledge of domestic quiet here, and future hap- 
piness in a better world. I say, that you will do ill to 
rend those ties asunder, and to give this maiden to the 
kinsman of Lord Morton, though Lord Morton’s kinsman 
he be.” 

“ These are fair reasons, my Lord of Murray,” said 
Morton, “ why you should refuse me so simple a boon 
as to bestow this silly damsel upon young Bennygask. 
Speak out plainly, my lord ; say you would rather see 
the Castle of Avenel in the hands of one who owes his 
name and existence solely to your favour, than in the 
power of a Douglas, and of my kinsman.” 

“ My Lord of Morton,” said Murray, “ I have done 
nothing in this matter which should aggrieve you. This 
young man Glendinning has done me good service, and 
may do me more. My promise was in some degree 
passed to him, and that while Julian Avenel was alive, 
when aught beside the maiden’s lily hand would have 
been hard to come by ; whereas you never thought of 
such an alliance for your kinsman, till you saw Julian lie 
dead yonder on the field, and knew his land to be a waif 
free to the first who could seize it. Come, come, my 
lord, you do less than justice to your gallant kinsman, in 
wishing him a bride bred up under the milk-pail ; for 
this girl is a peasant wench in all but the accident of 
birth. I thought you had more deep respect for the 
honour of the Douglasses.” 

“ The honour of the Douglasses is safe in my keep- 
ing,” answered Morton haughtily ; “ that of other an- 
cient families may suffer as well as the name of Avenel, 
if rustics are to be matched with the blood of our ancient 
barons.” 

20 * VOL. II. 


234 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ This is but idle talking,” answered Lord Murray ; 
“ in times like these, we must look to men, and not to 
pedigrees. Hay was but a rustic before the battle of 
Loncarty — the bloody yoke actually dragged the plough 
ere it was blazoned on a crest by the herald. Times of 
action make princes into peasants, and boors into barons. 
All families have sprung from some one mean man ; and 
it is well if they have never degenerated from his virtue 
who raised them first from obscurity.” 

“ My Lord of Murray will please to except the House 
of Douglas,” said Morton, haughtily ; “ Men have seen 
it in the tree, but never in the sapling — have seen it in 
the stream, but never in the fountain. In the earliest of 
our Scottish annals, the Black Douglas was powerful and 
distinguished as now.” 

“ 1 bend to the honours of the House of Douglas,” 
said Murray, somewhat ironically ; “ I am conscious 
we of the Royal House have little right to compete with 
them in dignity — What though we have worn crowns and 
carried sceptres for a few generations, if our genealogy 
moves no farther back than to the humble Alanas 



Morton’s cheek reddened as he was about to reply ; 
but Henry Warden availed himself of the liberty which 
the Protestant clergy long possessed, and exerted it to 
interrupt a discussion which w-as becoming too eager and 
personal to be friendly. “ My lords,” he said, “ I must 
be bold in discharging the duty of my Master. It is a 
shame and scandal, to hear two nobles, whose hands 
have been so forward in the work of reformation, fall into 
discord about such vain follies as now occupy Your 
thoughts. Bethink you how long you have thought w ith 
one mind, seen with one eye, heard with one ear, con- 
firmed by your union the congregation of the church, 
appalled by your joint authority the congregation of An- 
ti-Christ ; and will you now fall into discord, about an 
old decayed castle and a few barren hills, about the 
loves and likings of a humble spearsman and a damsel 


THE MOXASTERY. 


235 


bred in the same obscurity, or about the still vainer 
questions of idle genealogy 

“ The good man hath spoken right, noble Douglas,” 
said Murray, reaching him his hand, “ our union is too 
essential to the good cause to be broken off upon such 
idle terms of dissension. I am fixed to gratify Glendin- 
ning in this matter — my promise is passed. The wars, 
in vvhich I have had my share, have made many a family 
miserable ; I will at least try if I may not make one hap- 
py. There are maids and manors enow in Scotland — I 
prornise you, my noble ally, that young Bennygask shall 
be richly wived.” 

“ My lord,” said Warden, you speak nobly, and like 
a Christian. Alas ! this is a land of hatred and blood- 
shed — let us not chase from thence the few traces that 
remain of gentle and domestic love. And be not too 
eager for wealth to thy noble kinsman, my Lord of Mor- 
ton, seeing contentment in the marriage state no way 
depends on it.” 

“ If you allude to my family misfortune,” said Morton, 
whose Countess, wedded by him for her estate and hon- 
ours, was insane in her mind, “ the habit you wear, and 
the liberty, or rather license, of your profession, protect 
you from my resentment.” 

“ Alas ! rny lord,” replied Warden, “ how quick and 
sensitive is our self-love ! When, pressing forward in our 
high calling, we point out the errors of the Sovereign, 
who praises our boldness more than the noble Morton ? 
But touch we upon his own sore, which most needs lanc- 
ing, and he shrinks from the faithful chirurgeon in fear and 
impatient anger!” 

“ Enough of this, good and reverend sir,” said Mur- 
ray ; “ you transgress the prudence yourself recommend- 
ed even now. We are now close upon the village, and 
the proud Abbot is come forth at the head of his hive. 
Thou hast pleaded well for him. Warden, otherwise I 
had taken this occasion to pull down the nest, and chase 
away the rooks.” 


236 


THE MOXASTERY. 


“ Nay, but do not so,” said Warden ; ‘‘ this William 
Allan, whom they call the Abbot Eustatius, is a man whose 
misfortunes would more prejudice our cause than his 
prosperity. You cannot inflict more than he will endure ; 
and the more that he is made to bear, the higher will be 
the influence of his talents and his courage. In his con- 
ventual throne, he will be but coldly looked on — disliked, 
it may be and envied. But turn his crucifix of gold into 
a crucifix of wood — let him travel through the land, an 
oppressed and impoverished man, and his patience, his 
eloquence, and learning, will win more hearts from the 
good cause, than all the mitred abbots of Scotland have 
been able to make prey of during the last hundred years.” 

“ Tush ! tush ! man,” said Morton, ‘‘ the revenues 
of the Halidome will bring more men, spears, and horses, 
into the field in one day, than his preaching in a whole 
lifetime. These are not the days of Peter the Hermit, 
when Monks could march armies from England to Jeru- 
salem ; but gold and good deeds will still do as much 
or more than ever. Had Julian Avenel had but a score 
or two more men this morning, Sir John Foster had not 
missed a worse welcome. I say, confiscating the monk’s 
revenues is drawing his fang-teeth.” 

“ We will surely lay him under contribution,” said 
Murray, “ and moreover, if he desires to remain in his 
Abbey, he will do well to produce Piercie Shafton.” 

As he thus spoke, they entered the market-place, dis- 
tinguished by their complete armour and their lofty 
plumes, as well as by the number of followers bearing 
their colours and badges. Both these powerful nobles, 
but more especially Murray, so nearly allied to the crown, 
had at that time a retinue and household not much infe- 
rior to that of Scottish royalty. As they advanced into 
the market-place, a pursuivant, pressing forward from 
their train, addressed the monks in these words : — “ The 
Abbot of St. Mary’s is commanded to appear before the 
Earl of Murray.” 

“ The Abbot of St. Mary’s,” said Eustace, “ is in the 
patrimony of his Convent superior to every temporal lord. 


THE MONASTERY. 


237 


Let the Earl of Murray, if he seeks him, come himself 
to his presence/’ 

On receiving this answer Murray smiled scornfully, 
and, dismounting from his lofty saddle, he advanced, 
accompanied by Morton, and followed by others, to the 
body of monks assembled around the cross. There was 
an appearance of shrinking among them at the approach 
of the heretic lord, so dreaded and so powerful. But 
the Abbot, casting on them a glance of rebuke and en- 
couragement, stepped forth from their ranks like a valiant 
leader, when he sees that his personal valour must be 
displayed to revive the drooping courage of his followers. 
“ Lord James Stuart,” he said, “ or Earl of Murray, if 
that be thy title, I, Eustatius, Abbot of St. Mary’s, de- 
mand by what right you have filled our peaceful village, 
and surrounded our brethren with these bands of armed 
men ? If hospitality is sought, we have never refused 
it to courteous asking — if violence be meant against peace- 
ful churchmen, let us know at once the pretext and the 
object?” 

“ Sir Abbot,” said Murray, “ your language would 
better have become another age, and a presence inferior 
to ours. We come not here to reply to your interroga- 
tions, but to demand of you why you have broken the 
peace, collecting your vassals in arms, and convocating 
the Queen’s lieges, whereby many men have been slain, 
and much trouble, perchance breach of amity with Eng- 
land is likely to arise 

“ Lupus in fahula,'^ answered the Abbot scornfully. 

The wolf accused the sheep of muddying the stream 
when he drank in it above her — but it served as a pre- 
text for devouring her. Convocate the Queen’s lieges ^ 
I did so to defend the Queen’s land against foreigners. 
I did but my duty ; and 1 regret I had not the means to 
do it more efFectually.” 

“ And was it also a part of your duty to receive and 
harbour the Queen of England’s rebel and traitor ; and 
to inflame a war betwixt England and Scotland said 
Murray. 


238 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ In my younger days, my lord,” answered the Ab- 
bot, with the same intrepidity, “ a war with England was 
no such dreaded matter ; and not merely a mitred abbot, 
bound by his rule to show hospitality and afford sanctu- 
ary to all, but the poorest Scottish peasant, would have 
been ashamed to plead'ls^ fear of England, as the 

reason for shutting his door against a persecuted exile. 
But in those olden days, the English seldom saw the face 
of a Scottish nobleman, save through the bars of his 
visor.” 

“ Monk !” said the Earl of Morton, sternly, “ this 
insolence will little avail thee ; the days are gone by 
when Rome’s priests were permitted to brave noblemen 
with impunity. Give us up this Piercie Shafton, or by 
my father’s crest I will set thy Abbey in a bright flame !” 

“ And if thou dost, Lord of Morton, its ruins will 
tumble above the tombs of thine own ancestors. Be the 
issue as God wills, the Abbot of St. Mary’s gives up no 
one whom he hath promised to protect.” 

“ Abbot !” said Murray, “ bethink thee ere we are 
driven to deal roughly — the hands of these men,” he 
said, pointing to the soldiers, “ will make wild work 
among shrines and cells, if we are compelled to under- 
take a search for this Englishman.” 

“ Ye shall not need,” said a voice from the crowd ; 
and, advancing gracefully before the Earls, the Euphuist 
flung from him the mantle in which he was muffled. 
“ Via the cloud that shadowed Shafton !” said he ; “ be- 
hold, my Lords, the Knight of Wilverton, who spares you 
the guilt of violence and sacrilege.” 

“ I protest before God and man against any infraction 
of the privileges of this house,” said the Abbot, “ by 
an attempt to impose violent hands upon the person of this 
noble knight. If there be yet spirit in a Scottish Parlia- 
ment, we will make you hear of this elsewhere, my lords !” 

“ Spare your threats,” said Murray ; “ it may be, my 
purpose with Sir Piercie Shafton is not such as thou dost 
suppose — attach him, pursuivant, as our prisoner, rescue 
or no rescue.” 


THE MONASTERY. 


239 


“ J yield myself,” said the Euphuist, “ reserving my 
right to defy my Lord of Murray and my Lord of Morton 
to single duel, even as one gentleman may demand satis- 
faction of' another.” 

“ You shall not want those who will answer your 
challenge. Sir Knight,” replied Morton, “ without as- 
piring to men above thine own degree.” 

“ And where am I to find these superlative champi- 
ons,” said the English Knight, “ whose blood runs more 
pure than that of Piercie Shafton 

“ Here is a flight for you, rny lord !” said Murray. 

“ As ever was flown by a wild-goose,” said Stawarth 
Bolton, who had now approached to the front of the 
party. 

“ Who dared to say that word said the Euphuist, 
his face crimson with rage. 

“ Tut ! man,” said Bolton, ‘‘ make the best of it, thy 
mother’s father was but a tailor, old Overstitch of Hold- 
erness — Why, what ! because thou art a misproud bird, 
and despisest thine own natural lineage, and rufflest in 
unpaid silks and velvets, and keepest company with gal- 
lants and cutters, must we lose our memory for that 
Thy mother, Moll Overstitch, was the prettiest wench in 
those parts — she was wedded by Wild Shafton of Wil- 
verton, who, men say, was a-kin to the Piercie on the 
wrong side of the blanket.” 

“ Help the Knight to some strong waters,” said Mor- 
ton ; “ he hath fallen from such a height that he is stun- 
ned with the tumble.” 

In fact, Sir Piercie Shafton looked like a man stricken 
by a thunderbolt, while, notwithstanding the seriousness of 
the scene hitherto, no one of those present, not even the 
Abbot himself, could refrain from laughing at the rueful 
and mortified expression of his face. 

“ Laugh on,” he said at length, “ laugh on, my mas- 
ters,” shruggiug his shoulders ; “ it is not for me to be 
offended — yet would I know full fain from that squire, 
who is laughing with the loudest, how he had discovered 


240 


THE MONASTERY. 


this unhappy blot in an otherwise spotless lineage, and for 
what purpose he hath made it known 

“ I make it known ?” said Halbert Glendinning in 
astonishment, for to him this pathetic appeal was made, 
“ I never heard the thing till this moment.”^^ 

“ Why, did not that old rude soldier learn it from 
thee.^” said the Knight, in increasing amazement. 

“ Not J, by Heaven!” said Bolton ; “ 1 never saw tlie 
youth in my life before.” 

“ But you have seen him ere now, my worthy master,’' 
said dame Glendinning, bursting in her turn from the 
crowd. “ My son, this is Stawarth Bolton, he to whom 
we owe life, and the means of preserving it — if he be 
prisoner, as seems most likely, use thine interest with 
these noble lords to be kind to the widow’s friend.” 

“ What, my dame of the glen!” said Bolton, “ thy 
brow is more withered, as well as mine, since we met 
last ; but thy tongue holds the touch better than my arm. 
This boy of thine gave me the foil sorely this morning. 
The Brown Varlet has turned as stout a trooper as I 
prophesied ; and where is White Head f” 

“Alas!” said the mother, looking down, “Edward 
has taken orders, and become a monk of this Abbey.” 

“ A monk and a soldier !” — Evil trades both, my good 
Dame. Better have made one a good master fashioner, 
like old Overstitch of Holderness. I sighed when I 
envied you the two bonnie children, but 1 sigh not now 
to call either the monk or the soldier mine own. The 
soldier dies in the field, the monk scarce lives in the clois- 
ter.” 

“ My dearest mother,” said Halbert, “ where is Ed- 
ward, can I not speak with him ?” 

“ He has just left us for the present,” said Father 
Philip, “ upon a message from the Lord Abbot.” 

“ And Mary, my dearest mother?” said Halbert. 
Mary Avenel was not far distant, and the three were 
soon withdrawn from the crowd to hear and relate their 
various chances of fortune. 


THE MONASTERY. 


241 


While the subordinate personages thus disposed of 
themselves, the Abbot held serious discussion with the 
two Earls, and, partly yielding to their demands, partly 
defending himself with skill and eloquence, was enabled 
to make a composition for his Convent, which left it pro- 
visionally in no worse situation than before. 

The Earls were the more reluctant to drive matters to 
xtremity, since he protested, that if urged beyond what 
is conscience would comply with, he would throw the 
whole lands of the Monastery into the Queen of Scot- 
land’s hands, to be disposed of at her pleasure. This 
would not have answered the views of the Earls, who 
were contented for the time, with a moderate sacrifice of 
money and lands. Matters being so far settled, the Ab- 
bot became anxious for the fate of Sir Piercie Shafton, 
and implored mercy in his behalf. 

“ He is a coxcomb,” he said, “ my lords, but he is a 
generous, though a vain fool ; and it is my firm belief 
you have this day done him more pain than if you had 
run a poniard into him.” 

“ Run a needle into him, you mean. Abbot,” said the 
Earl of Morton ; “ by mine honour, I thought this grand- 
son of a fashioner of doublets was descended from a 
crowned head at least !” 

“ I hold with the Abbot,” said Murray ; “ there were 
little honour in surrendering him to Elizabeth, but he 
shall be sent where he can do her no injury. Our pur- 
suivant and Bolton shall escort him to Dunbar, and ship 
him off for Flanders. But soft, here he comes, and 
leading a female, as 1 think.” 

“ Lords and others,” said the English Knight with 
great solemnity, “ make way for the Lady of Piercie 
Shafton — a secret which I listed not to make known, 
till fate, which hath betrayed what I vainly strove to con- 
ceal, makes me less desirous to hide that which I now 
announce to you.” 

21 VOL. II. 


242 


THE MONASTERY. 


“ It is Mysle Happer the miller’s daughter, on my life!” 
said Tibb Tacket. “ I thought the pride of these Pier- 
cies would have a fa’.” 

“ It is indeed the lovely Mysinda,” said the Knight, 
“ whose merits towards her devoted servant deserved 
higher rank than he had to bestow.” 

“ I suspect though,” said Murray, “ that we should 
not have heard >of the miller’s daughter being made a 
lady, had not the knight proved to be the grandson of a 
tailor.” 

‘‘ My Lord,” said Sir Piercie Shafton, “ it is poor 
valour to strike him that cannot smite again ; and I hope 
you will consider what is due to a prisoner by the law of 
arms, and say nothing more on this odious subject. 
When I am once more mine own man, I will find a new 
road to dignity.” 

“ Shape one, I presume,” said the Earl of Morton. 

“ Nay, Douglas, you will drive him mad,” said Mur- 
ray ; “ besides, we have other matter in hand — I must 
see Warden wed Glendinning with Mary Avenel, and 
put him in possession of his wife’s castle without delay. 
It will be best done ere our forces leave these parts.” 

“ And I,” said the Miller, “ have the like grist to 
grind ; for I hope some one of the good fathers will wed 
my wench with her gay bridegroom.” 

“ It needs not,” said Shafton; “ the ceremonial hath 
been solemnly performed.” 

“ It will not be the worse of another bolting,” said the 
Miller ; ‘‘ it is always best to be sure, as I say when I 
chance to take multure twice from the same meal-sack.” 

“ Stave the miller off him,” said Murray, “or he will 
worry him dead. The Abbot, my lord, offers us the 
hospitality of the Convent ; I move we should repair 
hither. Sir Piercie and all of us. I must learn to know 
the Maid of Avenel — to-morrow I must act as her father 
— All Scotland shall see how Murray can reward a faith- 
ful servant.” 

Mary Avenel and her lover avoided meeting the Ab- 
bot, and took up their temporarv abode in a house of the 


THE MONASTERY. 


243 


village, where next day their hands were united by the 
Protestant preacher, in presence of the two Earls. On 
the same day Piercie Shafton, and his bride departed, 
under an escort which was to conduct him to the sea- 
side, and see him embark for the Low Countries. Early 
on the following morning the bands of the Earls were 
under march to the castle of Avenel, to invest the young 
bridegroom with the property of his wife, which was sur- 
rendered to them without opposition. 

But not without those omens which seemed to mark 
every remarkable event which befell the fated fam- 
ily, did Mary take possession of the ancient castle of her 
forefathers. The same warlike form which had appear- 
ed more than once at Glendearg, was seen by Tibb Tack- 
et and Martin, who returned with their young mistress 
to partake her altered fortunes. It glided before the 
cavalcade as they advanced upon the long causeway, 
paused at each draw-bridge, and flourished its hand, as 
in triumph, as it disappeared under the gloomy archway, 
which was surmounted by the insignia of the house of 
Avenel. The two trusty servants made their vision only 
known to Dame Glendinning, who, with much pride of 
heart, had accompanied her son to see him take his rank 
among the barons of the land. “ O, my dear bairn !” 
she exclaimed when she heard the tale ; “ the castle is a 
grand place to be sure, but I wish ye dinna a’ desire to 
be back in the quiet braes of Glendearg before the play 
be played out.” 

But this natural reflection, springing from maternal anx- 
iety, was soon forgotten amid the busy and pleasing task 
of examining and admiring the new habitation of her son. 

While these affairs were passing, Edward had hidden 
himself and his sorrows in the paternal tower of Glen- 
dearg, where every object was full of matter for bitter 
reflection. The Abbot’s kindness had despatched him 
thither upon pretence of placing some papers belonging 
to the Abbey in safety and secrecy ; but in reality to 
prevent his witnessing the triumph of his brother. 
Through the deserted apartments, the scene of so many 


^244 


THE MONASTERY. 


bitter reflections, the unhappy youth stalked like a discon- 
tented ghost, conjuring up around him at every step new 
subjects for sorrow, and for self-torment. Impatient, at 
length, of the state of irritation and agonized recollection 
m which he found himself, he rushed out and walked 
hastily up the glen, as if to shake off the load which hung 
upon his mind. The sun was setting when he reached 
the entrance of Corrinan-shian, and the recollection of 
what he had seen when he last visited that haunted ravine, 
burst on his mind. He was in a humour, however, 
rather to seek out danger than to avoid it. 

“ I will face this mystic being,” he said ; “ she fore- 
told the fate which has wrapped me in this dress, — I will 
know whether she has aught else to tell me of a life 
which cannot but be miserable.” 

He failed not to see the White Spirit seated by ber 
accustomed baunt, and singing in her usual low and sweet 
tone. While she sung she seemed to look with sorrow 
on her golden zone, which was now diminished to the 
fineness of a silken thread. 


Fare thee well, thou holly green ! 

Thou shall seldom now be seen, 

With all thy glittering garlands bending, 
As to greet my slow descending. 
Startling the bewilder’d hind, 

Who sees thee wave without a wind. 

Farewell, fountain ! now not long 
Shalt thou murmur to my song, 

While thy crystal bubbles glancing. 

Keep the time in mystic dancing, 

Rise and swell, are burst and lost, 

Like mortal schemes by fortune crest. 

The knot of faith at length is tied, 

The churl is lord, the maid is bride. 
Vainly did my magic sleight 
Send the lover from her sight ; 

Wither bush, and perish well, 

Fall’n is lofty Avenel ! 


TilE MOXASTEUY. 


245 


The Vision seemed to weep while she sung ; and the 
words impressed on Edward a melancholy belief, that the 
alliance of Mary with his brother might be fatal to them 
both. 

Here terminates the First Part of the Benedictine’s 
Manuscript. I have in vain endeavoured to ascertain 
the precise period of the story, as the dates cannot be 
exactly reconciled wdth those of the most accredited his- 
tories. But it is astonishing how careless the writers of 
Utopia are upon these important subjects. I observed 
that the learned Mr. Laurence Templeton, in his late pub- 
lication, entitled Ivanhoe, has not only blessed the bed 
of Edward the Confessor with an offspring unknown to 
history, with sundry other solecisms of the same kind, 
but has inverted the order of nature, and feasted his 
swine with acorns in the midst of summer. All that can 
be alleged by the warmest admirer of this author amounts 
to this, — that the circumstances objected to are just as 
true as the rest of the story ; which appears to me (more 
especially in the matter of the acorns) to be a very im- 
perfect defence, and that the author will do well to profit 
by Captain Absolute’s advice to his servant, and never 
tell him more lies than are indispensably necessary. 


21 * VOL. II. 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY 


1. Page 53. This sort of path, visible when looked at from a distance, 
but not to be seen when you are upon it, is called on the Border by the sig- 
nificant name of a Blind-road. 

2. Page 55. It is in vain to search near Melrose for any such castle as is 
here described. The lakes at the head of the Yarrow, and those at the rise 
of the water of Ale, present no object of the kind. But in Yetholm Locb^ 
(a romantic sheet of water, in the dry march, as it is called,) there are the re- 
mains of a fortress called Lochside Tower, which, like' the supposed Castle 
of Avenel, is built upon an island, and connected with the land by a cause- 
way. It is much smaller than the .Castle of Avenel is described, consisting 
only of a single ruinous tower. 

3. Page 56. It was of Lochwoodj the hereditary fortress of the John- 
stones of Annandale, a strong castle situated in the centre of a quaking bog, 
that James VI. made this remark. 

4. Page 65. Miser, used in the sense in which it often occurs in Spenser, 
and which is indeed its literal import, — wretched old man.'’ 

5. Page 72. This custom of handfasting actually prevailed in the upland 
days. It arose partly from the want of priests. While the convents subsist- 
ed, monks were detatched on regular circuits through the wilder districts, to 
marry those who had lived in tliis species of connexion. A practice of the 
same kind existed in the Isle of Portland. 

6 . Page 76. If it were necessary to name a prototj'pe for this brutal, 
licentious, and cniel Border chief, in an age which showed but too many such, 
the Laird of Black Ormiston might be selected for that purpose. He was a 
friend and confidant of Bothwell, and an J^ent in Henry Darnley’s murder. 
At his last stage, he was, like other great offenders, a seeming penitent 5 and, 
as his confession bears, divers gentlemen and servants being in the chamber, 
he said, For God's sake^ sit down and pray for me, for I have been a great 
sinner otherwise," (that is, besides his share in Darnley's death,) “ for the 
which God is thus punishing me ; for of all men on the earth, I have been one 
of the proudest, and most high-minded, and most unclean of my body. But 
specially I have shed the innocent blood of one Michael Hunter with my own 
hands. Alas ! therefore, because the said Michael, having me lying on my 
back, having a fork in his hand, might have slain me if he had pleased, and 
did it not, which of all things grieves me most in conscience. Also, in a rage, 
I hanged a poor man for a horse 5 —- with many other wicked deeds, for whilk 
I ask my God mercy. It is not marvel I have been wicked, considering the 
wicked company that ever I have been in, but specially within the seven years 
by-past, in which I never saw two good men or one good deed, but all kina 
of wickedness, and yet God would not suffer me to be lost." — See llie whole 
confession in the State Trials. 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


247 


Another worthy of the Borders, called Geordy Bourne, of somewhat sub- 
ordinate rank, was a similar picture of profligacy. He had fallen into tlie 
hands of Sir Robert Carey, then Warden of the English East JVIarches, who 
gives the following account of his prisoner’s confession 

“ When all things were quiet, and the watch set at night, after supper, about 
ten of the clock, I took one of my men’s liveries and put it about me, and 
took two other of my servants with me in their liveries ; and we three, as the 
Warden’s men, came to the Provost Marshal’s, where Bourne was, and were 
let into his chamber. We sate down by him, and told him that we were de- 
sirous to see him, because we heard he was stout and valiant, and true to his 
friend, and that we were sorry our master could not be moved to save his life. 
He voluntarily of himself said, that he had lived long enough to do so many 
villanies as he had done ; and withal told us, that he had lain with above forty 
men’s wives, what in England what in Scotland ; and that he had killed seven 
Englishmen with his own hands, cruelly murdering them ; and that he had 
spent his whole time in whoring, drinking, stealing, and taking deep revenge 
for slight offences. He seemed to be very penitent, and much desired a min- 
ister for the comfort of his soul. We promised him to let our master know 
his desire, who, we knew, would promptly grant it. We took leave of him ; 
and presently I took order that Mr. Selby, a very honest preacher, should go 
to him, and not stir from him till his execution the next morning 5 for after I 
had heard his own confession, I was resolved no conditions should save his 
life, and so took order, that at the gates opening the next morning, he should 
be carried to execution, which accordingly was performed.”— ilfemoirs q/" Sir 
Robert Carey, Earl of Monmouth. 


7. Page 108. Sir Piercie Shafton’s extreme love of dress was an attri- 
bute of the coxcombs of this period. The display made by their forefathers 
was in the numbers of their retinue ; but as the actual influence of the no- 
bility began to be restrained both in France and England by the increasing 
power of the crown, the indulgence of vanity in personal display became 
more inordinate. There are many allusions to this change of custom in 
Shakspeare and other dramatic writers, where the reader may find mention 
made of 


Bonds enter’d into 

For gay apparel against the triumph day.” 

Jonson informs us, that for the first entrance of a gallant, “ ’twere good you 
turned four or five hundred acres of vour best land into two or three trunks of 
apparel.”— Et'cry Man out of his fttimour. 

In the Memorie of the Somerville family, a curious instance occurs of this 
fashionable species of extravagance. In the year 1537, when James V. 
brouo-ht over his shortlived bride from France, the Lord Somerville of the day 
was so profuse in the expense of his apparel, that the money which he bor- 
rowed on the occasion was compensated by a perpetual annuity of threescore 
pounds Scottish, payable out of the barony of Carnwaih till doomsday, which 
was assigned by the creditor to Saint Magdalen’s Chapel. By this deep ex- 
pense the Lord Somerville had rendered himself so glorious in apparel, that 
the king, who saw so brave a gallant enter the gate of Holyrood, followed by 
only two pages, called upon several of the courtiers to ascertain who it could 
be who was so richly dressed and so slightly attended, and he was not recog- 
nised until he entered the presence-chamber. You are very brave, my lord,” 
said the King, as he received his homage ; but where are all your men and 
attendants The Lord Somerville readily answered, “ If it please vour 
Majesty here they are,” pointing to the lace that was on his own and his 
pages’ clothes ; whereat the King laughed heartily, and having surveyed the 
finery more nearly, bade him have away with it all, and let him have his stout 

band of spears again. ^ . tt » / a . nr 

There is a scene in Jonson’s “ Every Man out of his Humour,” (Act IV. 
Scene 6 ,) in which a Euphuist of the time gives an account of the effects of a 


248 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


duel on the clothes of himself and his opponent, and never departs a syllable 
from the catalogue of his wardrobe. We shall insert it in evidence that the 
foppery of our ancestors was not inferior to that of our own time. 

Fastidius. Good faith, signior, now you speak of a quarrel, I’ll acquaint 
you with a difference that happened between a gallant and myself, Sir Pun- 
tarvolo. You know him if I should name him— Signior Luculento. 

‘‘ Punt. Luculento ' What inauspicious chance interposed itself to your 
two loves ? 

Fast. Faith, sir, the same that sundered Agamemnon and great Thetis’ 
son ; but let the cause escape, sir. He sent me a challenge, mixt with some 
few braves, which I restored j and, in fine, we met. Now indeed, sir, I must 
tell you, he did offer at first very desperately, but without judgment 5 for look 
you, sir^ I cast myself into this figure ; now he came violently on, and withal 
advancing his rapier to strike, I thought to have took his arm, for he had left 
his body to my election, and I was sure he could not revover his guard. Sir, 
I mist my purpose in his arm, rashed his doublet sleeves, ran him close by the 
left cheek and through his hair. He, again, light me here — I had on a gold 
cabal hat-band, then new come up, about a murray French hat I had 5 cuts 
my hat-band, and 3 *et it was ma«sy goldsmith’s work, cuts my brim, which, 
by good fortune, being thick embroidered with gold twist and spangles, dis- 
appointed the force of the blow j nevertheless, it grazed on my shoulder, takes 
me away six purls of an Italian cut-work band I wore, cost me three pounds 
in the Exchange but three days before 

Punt. This was a strange encounter. 

“ Fast. Nay, you shall hear, sir. With this, we both fell out, and breath- 
ed. Now, upon the second sign of his assault, I betook me to my former man- 
ner of defence 5 he, on the other side, abandoned his body to the same danger 
as before, and follows me still with blows j but I, being loth to take the deadly 
advantage that lay before me of his left side, made a kind of stramazoun, ran 
him up to the hilt through the doublet, through the shirt, and yet missed the 
skin. He, making a reverse blow, falls upon my embossed girdle,— I had 
thrown off the hangers a little before,^ — strikes off a skirt of a thick-laced satin 
doublet I had, lined with four taffatas, cuts otf two panes embroidered with 
pearl, rends through the drawings-out of tissue, eniers the linings, and skips 
the flesh. 

“ Car. I wonder he speaks not of his wrought shirt. 

“ Fast. Here, in the opinion of mutual damage, we paused. But, ere I 
proceed, I must tell you, signior, that in the last encounter, not having leisure 
to put off my silver spurs, one of the rowels catched hold of the ruffles of my 
boot, and, being Spanish leather and subject to tear, overthrows me, renefs 
me two pair of silk stockings that I put on, being somewhat of a raw morn- 
ing, a peach colour and another, and strikes me some half-inch deep into the 
side of the calf; He seeing the blood come, presently takes horse and away ; 
I having bound up my wound with a piece of my wrought shirt 

Car. O, comes it in there ? 

Fast. Ride after him, and, lighting at the court-gate both together, em- 
braced, and marched hand in hand up into the presence. Was not this busi- 
ness well carried 1 

Mad. Well ! yes 5 and by this we can guess what apparel the gentle- 
man wore. 

“ Punt. ’Fore valour! it was a designment begun with much resolution, 
maintained with as much prowess, and ended with more humanity.” 

8 . Page 179. Lord James Stewart, afterwards the Regent Murray. 

9. Page 182. As some atonement for their laxity of morals on most oc- 
casions, the Borderers were severe observers of the Faith which they had 
pledged, even to an enemy. If any person broke his word so plighted, tha 
individual to whom faith had not been observed, used to bring to the next 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


249 


^ glove hung" on the point of a spear, and proclaim to Scots 
and Eng’hsh the name of the defaulter. This was accounted so great a dis- 
grace to all connected with hhn^ that his own clansmen sometimes destroyed 
him, to escape the infamy he had brought on them. 

Constable, a spy engaged by Sir Ralph Sadler, talks of two liorder thieves, 
whom he used as his guides, — “ That they would not care to steal, and yet 
that they would not betray any man that trusts in them, for all the gold in 
Scotland or in France. They are my guides and outlaws. If they would 
betray mo they might get their pardons, and cause me to be hanged 3 but I 
have tried them ere this.”*— Sad/er’5 Letters during the Northern Insurrection. 

10. Page 185. The biberes, caritas, and boiled almonds, of which Abbot 
Boniface speaks, were special occasions for enjoying luxuries, afforded to the 
monks by grants from different sov'ereigns, or from other benefactors to the 
convent. There is one of these charters called De Pitancia Centum Libra- 
rum. By this charter, which is very curious, our Robert Bruce, on the 10th 
January, and in the twelfth year of his reign, assigns, out of the customs of 
Berwick, and failing them, out of the customs of Edinburgh or Haddington, 
the sum of one hundred pounds, at the half-yearly terms of Pentecost and 
Saint Martin’s in winter, to the abbot and community of the monks of Melrose. 
The precise purpose of this annuity is to furnish to each of the monks of the 
said monastery, while placed at food in the refectory, an extra mess of rice 
boiled with milk, or of almonds, or peas, or other pulse of that kind which 
could be procured in the country. This addition to their commons is to be 
entitled the King’s Mess. And it is declared, that although any monk should, 
from some honest apology, want appetite or inclination to eat of the king’s 
mess, his share should, nevertheless, be placed on the table with those of nis 
brethren, and afterwards carried to the gate and given to the poor. “ Neither 
is it our pleasure,” continues the bountiful sovereign, “ that the dinner, which 
is or ought to be served up to the said monks according to their ancient rule, 
should be diminished in quantity, or rendered inferior in quality, on account 
of this our mess, so furnished as aforesaid.” It is, moreover, provided, that 
the abbot, with the consent of the most sage of his brethren, shall name a 
prudent and decent monk for receiving, directing, and expending, all matters 
concerning this annuity for the benefit of the community, agreeably to the 
royal desire and intention, rendering a faithful account thereof to the abbot 
and superiors of the same convent. And the same charter declares the king’s 
farther pleasure, that the said men of religion should be bound yearly and for 
ever, in acknowledgment of the above donation, to clothe fifteen poor men at 
the feast of Saint Martin in winter, and to feed them on the same day, deliv- 
ering to each of them four ells of large or broad, or six ells of narrow cloth, 
and to each also a new pair of shoes or sandals, according to their order; and 
if the said monks shall fail in their engagements, or any of them, it is the king’s 
will that the fault shall be redeemea by a double performance of what has 
been omitted, to be executed at the sight of the chief forester of Ettrick for 
the time being, and before the return of Saint Martin’s day succeeding that on 
which the omission has taken place. 

Of this charter, respecting the pittance of £ 100 assigned to furnish the 
monks of Melrose with a daily mess of boiled rice, almonds, or other pulse, 
to mend their commons, the antiquarian reader will be pleased, doubtless, to 
see the original. 

Carta Regis Roberti I. Abbati et Conveittui de Melross. 

Carta de Pitancia Centum Libranim. 

“ Robertas Dei gracia Rex Scottorum omnibus probis hominibus tocius 
terre sue Salutem. Sciatis nos pro salute aninie nostre et pro salute animarum 
antecessorum et successorum nostrorum Regum Scocie Dedisse Conccssisse 
et hac present! Carta nostra confirmasse Deo et Beate Marie virgiiii et Relig- 
iosis viris Abbati et Conventui de Melross et eorum successoribus m perpetuum 
Centum Libras Sterlingorum Annul Redditus singulis annls percipiendas do 


250 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY 


firmis nostris Burgi Berwici super Twedam ad tcrminos Pentecostls ct Sancti 
Martini in hyeme pro equali porlione vel de nov a Custuina nostra Burgi pre- 
dict! si firme nostre predi«-te ad dictain summain pecunie sufficcre non poterunt 
vel de novaCustuma nostra Burgorum nostrorum de Edenburg et de Hading- 
ton Si firme nostre et Custuma nostra ville Berwici aliquo casu contingente ad 
hoc forte non sufliciant. Ita quod dicta summa pecunie Centum Librarum eis 
annuatim integre et absque contradictione aliqua plenarie persolvatur pre 
cunctis aliis quibuscunque assignacionibus per nos factis seu laciendis ad in- 
veniendum in perpetuum singulis diebus cuilibet monacho monastcrii predicti 
comedenti in Refectorio unum sufficiens ferculum risarum factarum cum lacte, 
amigdalarum vel pisarum sive aliorum ciborum consimilis condicionis invento- 
rum in patria et illud ferculum ferculum Regis vocabitur in eternum. Et si 
aliquis monachus ex aliqua causa honesta de dicto ferculo comedere noluerit 
vel refici non poterit non minus attamen sibi de dicto ferculo ministretur et ad 
portam pro pauperibus deportetur. Nec volumes quod occasione ferculi nostri 
predicti prandium dicti Conventus de quo antiquitus communiter eis deserviri 
sive ministrari solebat in aliquo pejoretur seu diminuatur. Volumus in- 
super et ordinamus quod Abbas ejusdem monastcrii qui pro tempore fuerit de 
consensu saniorum de Conventu specialiter constituat unum monachum provid- 
um et discretum ad recipiendum ordinandum et expendendum totam summam 
pecunie memorate pro utilitate conventus secundum votum et intencionem 
mentis nostre superius annotatum et ad reddendum fidele compotum coram 
Abbate et Maioribus de Conventu singulis annis de pccunia sic recepta. Et 
volumus quod dicti religiosi teneantur annuatim in perpetuum pro predicta 
donacione nostra ad perpetuam nostri memoriam vestire quindecim pauperes 
ad festum Sancti Martini in hieme et eosdem cibare eodem die fiberando 
eorum cuilibet quatuor ulnas panni grossi et lati vel sex ulnas panni strict! et 
eorum cuilibet unum novum par sotularium de ordine suo. Et si dicti religiosi 
in premissis vel aliquo premissorum aliquo anno defecerint volumus quod illud 
quod minus perimpletum fuerit dupplicetur diebus magis necessariis per visum 
capitalis forestarii nostri de Selkirk, qui pro tempore fuerit. Et quod dicta 
dupplicatio fiat ante natale domini proximo sequens festum Sancti Martini 
predictum. In cujus rei testimonium present! Carte nostre sigillum nostrum 

S recipimus apponi. Testibus veneraliilibus in Christo patribus Willielmo, 
ohanne, Willielmo et David Sancti Andree, Glasguensis, Dunkeldensis et 
Moraviensis ecclesiarum dei gracia episcopis Bernardo Abbate de Abirbroth- 
ock Cancellario, Duncano, Malisio, et Hugone de Fyf de Strathin et deRoss, 
Comitibus WalteroSenescallo Scocie. Jacobo domini de Duglas et Alexan- 
dro Fraser Camerario nostro Scocie militibus. Apud Abirbrothock, decimo 
die January. Anno Regni nostri vicesimo." 

11. Page 208. Spur-whang — Spur-leather. 

12. Page 231. It is scarcely necessary to say, that in Melrose, the pro- 
totype of Kennaquhair, no such oak ever existea. 

13. Page 234. The late excellent and laborious antiquary Mr. George 
Chalmers, has rebuked the vaunt of the House of Douglas, or rather of Hume 
of Godscroft, their historian, but with less than his wonted accuracy. In the 
first volume of his Caledonia, he quotes the passage in Godscroft for the pur- 
pose of confuting it. 

The historian (of the Douglasses) cries out, “ We do not know them in the 
fountain, but in the stream ; not in the root, but in the stem ; for we know not 
which is the mean man that did rise above the vulgar.’' This assumption Mr. 
Chalmers conceives ill-timed, and alleges, that if the historian had attended 
more to research than to declamation, he might easily have seen the first 
mean man of this renowned family. This he alleges to have been one The- 
obaldus Flammaticus, or Theobald the Fleming, to whom Arnold, Abbot of 
Kelso, between the year 1147,and 1 ICO, granted certain lands on Douglas 
water, by a deed which Mr. Chalmers conceives to be the first link of the chain 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY. 


251 


of title-deeds to Douglasdale. Hence, he says, the family must renounce 
their family domain, or acknowledge this obscure Fleming as their ancestor. 
Theobald the Fleming, it is acknowledged, did not himself assume the name 
of Douglas ; ‘' but,” says the antiquary, “ his son William, who inherited his 
estate, called himself, and was named by others, De Dug’las and he refers 
to the deeds in which he is so designed. Mr. Chalmers^ full argument may 
be found in the first volume of his Caledonia, p. 579. 

This proposition is one which a Scotsman will admit unwillingly, and only 
upon undeniable testimony ; and as it is liable to strong grounds of challenge, 
the present author, with all the respect to Mr. Chalmers which his zealous and 
effectual researches merit, is not unwilling to take this opportunity to state 
some plausible grounds for doubting that Tneobaldus Flammaticus was either 
the father of the first William de Douglas, or in the slightest degree connected 
with the Douglas family. 

It must first be observed, that there is no reason whatever for concluding 
Theobaldus Flammaticus to be the father of William de Douglas, except that 
they both held lands up»n the small river of Douglas ; and that there are two 
strong presumptions to the contrary. For, first, the father being named Flem- 
ing, there seems no good reason why the son should have assumed a different 
designation 5 secondly, there does not occur a single instance of the name of 
Theobald during the long line of the Douglas pedigree, an omission ver}’ un- 
likely to take place had the original father of the race been so called. These 
are secondary considerations indeed ; but they are important, in so far as they 
exclude any support of Mr. Chalmers’s system, except from the point which 
he has rather assumed than proved, namely , that the lands granted to Theobald 
the Fleming were the same which were granted to William de Douglas, and 
which constituted the original domain of which we find this powerful family 
lords. 

Now, it happens, singularly enough, that the lands granted oy the Abbot 
of Kelso to Theobaldus Flammaticus are not the same of which William de 
Douglas was in possession. Nay, it would appear, from comparing the char- 
ter granted to Theobaldus Flammaticus, that, though situated on the water of 
Douglas, they never made a part of the barony of that name, and therefore 
cannot be the same with those held by William de Douglas in the succeeding 
generation. But if William de Douglas did not succeed Theobaldus Flam- 
maticus, there is no more reason for holding these two persons to be father 
and son than if they had lived in different provinces ; and we are still as far 
from having discovered the first mean man of the Douglas family as Hume 
of Godscroft was in the 16th century. We leave the question to antiquaries 
and genealogists. 

14. Page 234. To atone to the memory of the learned and indefatigable 
Chalmers for having ventured to impeach his genealogical proposition con- 
cerning the descent of the Douglasses, we are bound to render him our grate- 
ful thanks for the felicitous light which he has thrown.on that of the House of 
Stewart, still more important to Scottish history. 

The acute pen of Lord Hailes, which, like the spear of Ithuriel, conjured 
so many shadows from Scottish history, had dismissed amonff the rest those 
of Banquo and Fleance, the rejection of which fables left the illustrious family 
of Stewart without an ancestor beyond Walter the son of Allan, who is allud- 
ed to in the text. The researches of our late learned antiquary detected in 
this Walter, the descendant of Allan, the son of Flaald, who obtained from 
William the Conqueror the Castle of Oswestry in Shropshire, and was the 
father of an illustrious line of English nobles, by his first son, William, and by 
his second son, Walter, the progenitor of the royal family of Stewart. 

15. Page 240. The contrivance of provoking the irritable vanity of Sir 
Piercie Shafton, by presenting him with a bodkin, indicative of his descent 
from a tailor, is borrowed from a German romance, by the celebrated Pieck 
called Das Peter Manchan, i. e. The Dwarf Peter. The being who gives 


252 


NOTES TO THE MONASTERY 


name to the tale^ is the Burg-geist, or castle spectre, of a German familj'’. 
•whom he aids with his counsel, as he defends their castle by his supernatural 
power. But the Dwarf Peter is so unfortunate an adviser, that all his coun 
sels, though producing success in the immediate results, are in the issue at- 
tended with mishap and with guilt. The youthful baron, the owner of the 
haunted castle, falls in love with a maiden, the daughter of a neighbouring 
count, a man of great pride, who refuses him the hand of the young lady, on 
account of his own superiority of descent. The lover, repulsed and affronted, 
returns to take counsel with the Dwarf Peter, how he may silence the count, 
and obtain the victory in the argument, the next time they enter on the topic 
of pedigree. The dwarf gives his patron or pupil a horse-shoe, instructing 
him to give it to the count when he is next giving himself superior airs on the 
subject of his family. It has the effect accordin^y. The count, understand- 
ing it as an allusion to a misalliance of one of his ancestors with the daughter 
of a blacksmith, is throwm into a dreadful passion with the young lover, the 
consequences of which are the seduction of the young lady, and the slaughter 
of her father. 

If we suppose the dwarf to represent the corrupt part of human nature,— 
that law in our ir.-'mbers which wars against the law of our minds/'— the 
work forms an ingenious allegory. 


END OF THE MONASTERY, 















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